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POEMS 



BY 



WILLIAM WILSON 



EDITED BY 



BENSON J. LOSSING. 



SECOND EDITION, 



3fe 



POUGHKEEPSIE: 
ARCHIBALD WILSON 

1875. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by 

Archibald Wilson, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 

New York. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE ! 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED Bt 

H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Memoir 1 

Sabbath Morning in the Woods . . . 17 

Nature's Worship 19 

0, Blessing on thee, Land 22 

Song of the Western Settler .... 24 

King Robert the Bruce 26 

The Rare Old Friends 28 

The Mitherless Wean 30 

Bonnie Mary . . ' 34 

Hymn 36 

Mary 37 

Stanzas to a Lady 40 

Eulalie 49 

Song 51 

A Welcome to Christopher North . . .53 

"Ah! Na, Johnnie, Na" 5'! 

Richard Cocur de Lion 58 

The Island Queen 60 

A Mourner's Dream 63 

"It is Well" 65 

The Faithless 67 

Epistle to Lizzy Lee 69 

Night on the Sea-shore 75 

The Husband's Song 78 

Confession 80 

Marian's Gra.ve 82 

Dirge 84 



iv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Fountain of Life 86 

The Lily o' Glenlyon 88 

St. Mary's Well 90 

Jean Linn 92 

Song 94 

Song for the Anniversary of the Birthday of 

Burns 98 

Work is Prayer 99 

Auld Johnny Graham 101 

A Fireside Scene 101 

Thou art far away 307 

Church-yahd Thoughts 109 

Schamyl Ill 

Stanzas to a Child 113 

Scotland 119 

Song 12i r 

Tou jours la Meme 122 

Hymn 123 

Song ■ 121 

The Bereaved 125 

Farewell 126 

Auld Hawkie 128 

A -Midnight Sketch 130 

Song 132 

Song 134 

To Orynthia . . 136 

The Refuge 138 

The Homesick 140 

Lizzy Lass 144 

Song 145 

Song 147 

Jeanie Graham 149- 

The Beatified Child ]51 

Laura's Smile 153 

O Blessing on her Star-like Een . . . 155 

Song 157 

Lizzy Lokhimer 158 



CONTENTS. V 

PAGE 

To Lizzy 160 

My Soul is ever with thee 162 

Song 163 

My Father's Grave 164 

The Close 167 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



The Awakening of the Wind .... 171 

Bessy's Wooing 174 

When I was first a Mason made .... 176 

Epistle from Niagara Falls. — To Jeanie . 178 

Dark's the Winter's Night an' Drear . . 181 

Meg Macree 183 

Meet me at the close o' Day .... 185 

The Absent Wife 186 

Glenisla Mary 188 

A Tribute 189 

The Glad Voice of Spring in the Woodland is 

ringing 190 

To 192 

Oh, heavy and chill fa's the Wintry Rain . 193 

On a Tainting of Two Children . . . 195 

Spirit of my Father, art thou hovering nigh? 197 

To my Sister Ellen 199 

Lines on a Miniature 201 

And shall^ their Anthems ring for me? . . 203 

Love 205 

A Serenade Song 207 

Philip Fairley. — Song 208 

A Siller'd Love they bid me Seek. — Song . 210 

Thy Cheeks are like Lilies, Marion. — Song 211 
But unto thee, but unto thee . . . .212 

In Memoriam 213 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



A. 

COPIES. 

Adriance, John P Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Adriance, Walter Poughkeepsie, X. Y 1 

Ainslie, Hew. Louisville, Ky 6 

Anderson, Catherine Poughkeepsie, X. Y 1 

Armitage, Rt. Rev. TV. E . Milwaukee, "Wis 1 

Arnold, E. C Milwaukee, Wis 5 

Atwill, Winthrop Poughkeepsie, X. Y 1 

B. 

Barnard, Miss Marg't A. Poughkeepsie, X. Y 1 

Barnard, George Chicago, 111 1 

Barritt, William Xew York 1 

Beecher, Rev. Henry W.Peekskill, X. Y 1 

Bedell, Rt. Rev. G. T . . . . Gambier. Ohio'. 1 

Beadle, Dr. Edward L. . .Poughkeepsie, X. Y 1 

Beckwith, Miss Helen M. Alstead, X. H 1 

Bockee, John Jacob Brooklyn, X. Y 1 

Bockee, Dr. Jacob Poughkeepsie, X. Y 1 

Bockee, Phoenix North East, X. Y 1 

Bowne, James Poughkeepsie, X. Y 1 

Boyd, John G Poughkeepsie, X. Y ] 

Bryant, William Cullen.Xew York 1 

Bruen, John. S . Ulster Co., X. Y 1 

Buckingham, S. M Poughkeepsie, X. Y 4 



viu LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 

C0PIE3 

Buckingham, C. J Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Butler, Mrs. M. A Hyde Park, N. Y 

Buck, Mrs. Elizabeth L. . Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Burnap, G. C Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

C. 

Cady, Eev. Philander K . Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Carpenter, Leonard Poughkeepsie, N. Y.. 

Carter, Robert, & Bros. .New York 

Carpenter, Jacob B Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Carpenter, Hon. Morgan . Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Carter, Dr. N. M Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Carpenter, B. P Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Chambers, Rt. Hon. Wm, Edinburgh, Scotland 

Cheeswright, E New York 

Clarkson, Rt. Rev. R, H.Omaha, Nebraska Territory. 

Clark, Rt. Rev. Thos. M . Providence, R. I 

Coxe, Rt. Rev. A. C Buffalo, N. Y 

Cooledge, W. P New York 

Corlies, George Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Corning, Rev. J. L ..Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Corlies, Jacob Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Corliss, C. K New York. , 

Corn well, George Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Crooke, John J New York 

Currie, Samuel Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

D. 

DaVis, Rev. Sheldon Northford, Coun 

Davies, Wm. A Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Davies, Gen. T. L Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Derby, J. C .New York 

Dibble, Miss Julia B Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Dixon, Robert Poughkeepsie, N. Y 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. ** 

COPIES. 

Dorland, S. G Hastings-oa-Hudson, N. Y. . 

Doughty, Joseph C Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Donaldson, James New Hamburgh, N. Y 

Dodge, Le Grand Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Dreer, Ferdinand J Philadelphia 

Duvckinck, Evert A New York 

Durand, J South Orange, N. J 

Du Bois, Cornelius Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

E. 

Ellsworth, John E ..... . Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Eldridge, E. Q. . ...*. . . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Emott, Hon. James Poughkeepsie, N. Y 



Farnum, M. L Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Faulkner, Josiah Wappinggers Falls, N. Y, 

Ferguson, David Milwaukee, Wis 

Flint, M's Martha Bockee.Monticello, N. Y 

Fonda, W. C Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Freeman, Mrs. L. S New Hamburgh, N. Y. . . 

Frost, R. W Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Frost, Henry S ....... . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Frost, Prof. S. T Amenia, N. Y 

Frost, Joseph G Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Frost, John G Caspar's Creek, N. Y . . . 

Frazer, John Poughkeepsie, N. Y 



G. 

Garland, Mrs. M Hyde Park, N. Y 2 

Garrettson, Miss M. Pv . . . Rhinebeck, N. Y 1 

Gavlord, G. R Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Gifford, N Poughkeepsie, N. Y 



Gibson, 



William New York 2 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



Giraud, Mrs. J. P Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Gibson, William Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Goodrich, Wm. M Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Gregg, Rt. Rcy. Alex. . .San Antonio, Texas. 

Greble, Edwin Philadelphia , 

Greeley, Horace New York , 

Grubb, John Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Grant, John J Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 



COPIES 



H. 

Harper & Brothers New York 4 

Harper, J. W. Jr New York 

Harris, Joseph C Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Hageman, Rev. Chas. S. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Hasbrouck, Miss Laura T.New Paltz, N. Y 

Hammond, Mrs. Geo. . . . Wickford, R. I 

Hagar, J. Henry New York '. 

Hamilton, Mrs. Philip. . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Hart, Mrs. Elizabeth Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Hayt, P. B Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Hale, P. C .Milwaukee, Wis 

Harvey, Dr. A. B Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Hinsdale, Wm. L Milwaukee, Wis 

Howland, H Waterford, Pa 

Hoyt, Rev. Sherman Staatsburgh, N. Y 

Hull, George D Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Houghton, Dr. Chas. L. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

I. 

Innis, Mrs. George Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Ingersoll, Mrs. Gertrude . Poughkeepsie, N. Y, 



J. 

Jewett, Jacob B Poughkeepsie, N. Y . 

Jewett, Milo P Milwaukee, Wis 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. Xi 

COPIES. 

Jewett, Henry S Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Johnston, John Milwaukee, Wis 1 



Kemper, Rt Rev. Jaeks'n Delafield, Wis 1 

Kelly, Hon. William Rhinebeck, N. Y 2 

Keene, Rev. David Milwaukee, Wis 1 

L. 

Langdon, Mrs. Cath. L. .Hyde Park, N. Y 2 

Lattin, J. M Rhinebeck, N. Y 

Latto, Thomas C New York 

Lay, Rt. Rev. H. C Little Rock, Ark 

Lenox, James New York 2 

Lewis, John N Red Hook, N. Y 

Lent, William B .New York 

Lent, George B Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Lossing, Benson J Dover, N. Y 

Lossing, Mrs. B. J Dover, N. Y 

Lossing, Edwin J Dover, N. Y 

Loomis, John Mason .... Chicago, 111 

M. 

Malcom, James F New York 2 

Mayer, Brantz Baltimore, Md 

Mann, Dr. James H Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Martin, William Milton, N. Y 

Mc Arthur, Hon. Arthur. Milwaukee, Wis 

McAllister, John A Philadelphia 

McLanahann, Mrs. A. M. New Hamburgh, N. Y 

Merritt, Wm. H Fishkill-on-Hudson 

Miller, Hon. A. G. Milwaukee, Wis 

Mitchell, Alexander Milwaukee, Wis 

Mitchell, Jane Eliza. . . . .Washington Hollow, N. Y. . 



xii LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 

COPIES. 

Moore, George H N. Y. Historical Society. ... 5 

Morgan, William S Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Morse, Prof. Saml. F. B . Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Moreau, John B New York 1 

Moreau, Charles C New York 1 

Moreau, Peter J New York 1 

Mulfof d, Mrs. D. H Hyde Park, N. Y 1 

Myers, Mrs. M. J Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

N. 

Nelson, John Peter Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

North, R Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

O. 

O'lvane, James New York ' 1 

Oshorne, E. B Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

P. 

Palmer, Rohert N Poughkeepsie, N. Y I 

Palmer, B. D . . Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Palmer, Hon. A. W Amenia, N. Y. 1 

Parker, Dr. Edward H . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Parker, Thomas E Hyde Park, N. Y 1 

Pendleton, Mrs. Edm. H. New York 1 

Pelton, G. P. Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Pine, Dr. Per Lee Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Piatt, Isaac Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Piatt, Angelina Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Piatt, Samuel R New York 1 

Pooley, William I New York 1 

Pond, Mrs. B. F Washington Hollow, N. Y. . 2 

Putnam, George P New York 1 

Purdy, Rev. J. S... Hyde Park, N. Y 1 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. Xm 

COPIES 

Q. 
Quintard, F. F New York 1 

R, 

Randall, Rt. Rev. G. M.. Denver, Colorado 

Ray nor, Samuel New York 

Randolph, A. D. F New York 3 

Raymond, Rev. J. H. . . . Vassar College 

Redfield, J. S New York 

Reed, Henry A Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Rice, Rev. C. D Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Rider, Rev. Geo. T Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Richmond, Miss Sarah S. Newark, N. J 

Robertson, Rt. Rev. C. F. St Louis, Mo 

Rogers, Mrs. Archibald. . New York 

Rogers, John (sculptor) . .New York 

Roe, Capt. Stephen West Point, N. Y 

Russell, Archibald Esopus, N. Y 

S. 

Sanford, Robert Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Scribncr, Charles New York 

Shaw, Henry W New York 

Sheafe, Mrs.' J. F New Hamburgh, N. Y 

Slee, Robert Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Smillie, W. C Ottawa, Canada 

Sjnart, Miss Mary Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Smead. Dr. W Cincinnati, O 

Smith, Col. James Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Smith, Gen. A. B Pougbkeepsie, N. Y 

Somerville, James New York 

South-wick, Mary D .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Sterling, George "W Poughkeepsie, N. Y 

Stuyvesant, Mrs. M. A. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 



xiv LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



Steele, Mrs. M. C. C . . . .New York 

Street, Alfred B Albany, N. Y 

Stevens, Henry H Poughkeepsie, N. Y. , 

Swift, George H Amenia Union, N. Y. 

Swift, James H Amenia, N. Y 

Swan, C Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . 

Swift, C. W Poughkeepsie, N. Y. , 

Swift, Isaac Hart's Village, N. Y. 

Synnott, Rev. S. H Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . 



T. 



Talbot, Rt. Rev. J. C Indianapolis, Ind. . . 

Taylor, Miss B Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Taylor, Bayard Kennet Square, Pa. . 

Taylor, R. E Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Taylor, Hudson Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Thompson, Hon. John. ..Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
Thomas, Rev. Wm. B. . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Trowbridge, N. C Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Tuttle, Rt. Rev. D. S. . .Helena, Montana. . . 
Tucker, John F Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

U. 



Uhl, Stephen Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Underhill, Miss Jane Poughkeepsie, N. Y, 

Upton, Mrs. Sarah B. ...Woodbury, N.J 



V. 

Vail, Rt. Rev. Thos. H. .Lawrence, Kan 

Varick, Dr. Richard A. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y, 

Varick, Abraham Poughkeepsie, N. Y, 

Van Kleeck, George Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Van Kleeck, George M. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
Van Kleeck, W Poughkeepsie, N. Y 



COPIES 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. XV 



Van Kleeck, Edward .... Poughkeepsie, N. Y . 

Van Kleeck, E. M Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Van Alen, Jacob New York 

Vassar, John Guy Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Vassar, Matthew Poughkeepsie, N. Y . 

Vincent, Rev. Leonard M. Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 



W. 

Wallace, Gen. Lewis Crawfordsville, Ind. . . 

Warner, J. H Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . . 

Ward, Daniel O Pleasant Valley, ST. Y. 

Watkins, W. S . . . .Farmdale, Ky 

Warring, Chas. B Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . . 

Wellstood, Stephen Edinburgh, Scotland. . 

Wellstood, John Geikie. . Greenwich, Conn 

Wellstood, William Metuchin, N. J 

Wells, Mrs. Saml. R. . . .New York 

Weeks, James H Poughkeepsie, N. Y . . . 

Whipple, Rt. Rev. H. B.Fairbault, Minn 

Whitton, W. H New York 

Whittingham, Rt. Rev. . W. R. Baltimore, Md. 

Whitehouse, Rt. Rev. H. J. Chicago, 111 

Whitall, Miss Sarah R. .Woodbury, N. Y 

Wheaton, Hon. Charles. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . . 

White, Isaac W Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . . 

Wheeler, Rev. Francis B. Poughkeepsie, N. Y. , . 

Wheaton, Homer Lithgow, N. Y 

Whittier, John G Amesbury, Mass 

Winslow, J. F Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . . 

Winslow, James Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . . 

Willcox, W. C Stamford, Ct 

Wilson, Velina Bockee. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . . 
Wilson, Oakley Bockee. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . . 
Wilson, William Ross. . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y. . , 



COPIES. 



XVI LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 

Wilson, Geo. Sibbald. ...Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
Wilson, Allan Grant. . . .Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 
Woodhnll, Azelia Giraud.Ravenswood, L. I . 
Woodin, Capt. W. R. . . .Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 

Wood, James G Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 

Worrall, Benjamin Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 

Wright, John Henry Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 

Wright, Rev. D. G. ..... Ponghkeepsie, IS. Y. 

Wright, James H New York. . . 



COPIES. 



Y. 
Young, Henry L Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 



SECOND EDITION 



A. 

Ainslie, Hew Louisville, Ky 1 

Anderson, Mrs. Cath Ponghkeepsie, N. Y i 

Arnold, E. C. New York 1 

Astor Library New York 1 

B. 

Baker, Hon. Stephen. . . . Poughkeepsie, N. Y. l 

Barney, Hon. Hiram. . . . New York 1 

Beadle, Dr. Edw'd. L. . . Poughkeepsie, N. Y l 

Bech, Mrs. Edward Poughkeepsie, N. Y l 

Bockce, Abraham Chicago, Illinois l 

Brown, Edwin Rhineheck, N. Y l 

Broas, Win. H Poughkeepsie, N. Y. l 

Bryant, William Cullen. New York 1 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. xvii 

C. 

COPIES. 

Cady, Rev. Philander K.Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Campbell, Dr. C. N Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Candec, John N Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Capron, Mrs. Helen Walden, N. Y 1 

Caul dwell, A. . - Newburgh, N. Y 1 

Chambers, Rt. Hon. Win. Edinburgh, Scotland 1 

Cleaveland, Frank San Diego, Cal ] 

Coxe, Rt. Rev. A. C. . . Buffalo, N. Y 1 

Colfax, Hon. Schuyler. . South Bend, 111 1 

Cooper, Mrs. John R. . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Cook, Prof. Geo. W Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Cook, J. Hervey Fishkill-on-Hudson, N. Y. . . 1 

Coffin, Tristram Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Crocker, John T Watertown, Wis 1 

Crary, Rev. Robert F. . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Currier, Andrew F Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Curtis, George William. . New York 1 

D. 

Darrow, Mrs. S. K Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

De Garmo, James M.. . .Rhinebcck, N. Y 1 

Drake, Francis S Boston, Mass 1 

E. 

Elliott, Hon. James New York 1 

F. 

Fanning, Mrs. Wm. A. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Flagler, Miss Jane E.. .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Flagler, Paul Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Fonda, Arminta Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Fonda, Mrs. JamesH.. . .Brooklyn, N. Y 1 

Freeman, Mrs. L. S.. . .London, England. 1 

Frost, Prof. S. T Amenia, N. Y 3 



xviii LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 

G. 

COPIES. 

Grant, Gen. U. S Washington, D. C 1 

Gilbert, Henry Wilber. . .Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Garland, Mrs. M Hyde Park 1 

H. 

Hallock, Sarah H Milton, N. Y 2 

Hallock, Nathan Milton, N. Y 1 

Ham, Mrs. Milton Washington Hollow, X. Y. . 1 

Hegeman, W. W Poughkeepsie, N. Y 3 

Hicks, Gilbert E Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Hoag, Langdon Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Holmes, Dr. 0. W Boston, Mass 1 

Hoi man, Rev. J. W North Stonington, Conn.. . . 1 

Hopkins, Elias G Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Hoyle, Mark C Boston, Mass 1 

J. 

Jewitt, John II Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

K. 

Kernot, Henry New York 1 

Knortz, N. Carl Portage, Wisconsin 1 

L. 

Lawson, James New York 1 

Le Roy, Sherman H. . . .Poughkeepsie, New York. ... 1 

Lenox, James New York 1 

Loyd. Rev. William Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Longfellow, H. W Cambridge, Mass 1 

Lossing, Benson J Tbe Ridge, Dover, N. Y. . . . 5 

Lossing, Mrs. Benson J.. Tbe Ridge, Dover, X. Y. . . . 1 

Lossing, Edwin John. . .The Ridge, Dover, N. Y 1 

Lossing, Helen Miriam R. The Ridge, Dover, N. Y. . . . 1 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS.^ xix 

C0PIE8. 

Lossing, Alice Casey. . .The Ridge, Dover, X. Y 

Lossing, Thomas Sweet. .The Ridge, Dover, N. Y... . 
Lynde, Mrs. Wm. Pitt . .Milwaukee, Wisconsin 

M. 



Mackenzie, James New York 

Mackenzie, Dr. Slielton.. Philadelphia, Pa. . . 

Malcolm, James New York 

Mercantile, Library New York 

Michigan Ave. Free Li- 
brary Chicago, 111 

Millard, Mrs. Rob't Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 

Motley, J. Lothrop London, England. . . 

Moore, John.. Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

Morris, Richard Troy, N. Y 



0. 
Osborn, Edward B Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 

P. 

Patten, Col. G. W Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 

Piatt, John I Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 

Potter, Rt. Rev. Horatio. New York. 

Ponghkeepsie City Li- 
brary Ponghkeepsie, N. Y 



Q. 

Qnintard, "William M. . .Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 
Quintard, C. A Ponghkeepsie, N. Y. 

R. 

Redfield, J. S Burlington, N. J. . . 

Reed, Henry A Ponghkeepsie 

Ring, Fred A Lockport, N. Y 



XX LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 

COPIES. 

Robson, Adam Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Rogers, John ( Sculptor) . New York 1 

S. 

Sackett, Guernsey New York 1 

Sanford, Rob't Poughkeepsie, N. Y 2 

Schram, N. H Newburgh, N. Y 1 

Sheafe, Mrs. J. F New Hamburgh, N. Y 1 

Simpson, Mrs. John Poughkeepsie, N. Y 2 

Southwick, Willet H Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

St. Stephen's College... . Anandale, N. Y 1 

Stoutenburgh, Jas. T>. C. Hyde Park, N. Y 1 

Stoutenburgh, J. A New York 2 

Sutcliff, Eli Poughkeepsie, N. Y 2 

Swan, Cyrus Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Swift, H. M Chestnut Ridge, N. Y 1 

T. 

Taylor, Bayard Kennet Square, Pa 1 

Taylor, Mrs. E. P Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Turner, W. L Wappinger's Palls 1 

U. 

Upton, Mrs. Sarah B.. . .Woodbury, N. J 1 

V. 

Van Benschotten, Mrs. 

Henry La Giange, N. Y 1 

W. 

Webb, Dr. De Witt Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Welles, Howard W Poughkeepsie ] 

Wheeler, Rev. F. B Poughkeepsie, N. Y ] 

Whitall, Miss Sarah R. . Woodbury, N. Y 1 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. xxi 

COPIES. 

White, Isaac W Poughkeepsie, N. Y 2 

Whit tier, John G Amesbury, Mass 1 

Whittemore, Abm Milwaukee, Wisconsin 2 

Whit ting-ham, Et. Rev. 

W. R Baltimore, Md 1 

Willetts, Mrs. Jacob Washington, N. Y 1 

Willis, W. H " Obercreek," N. Hamburgh, 

N.Y 1 

Wilkinson, Miss Mary. . Poughkeepsie 1 

Worrall, Thomas Poughkeepsie, N. Y 1 

Y. 

Young Men's Christian 

Ass'n New York 1 



MEMOIR. 



The sweetest flowers are not the foster- 
children of the garden only. The most fra- 
grant blossoms are not always the most delight- 
some to the eye. The student of nature finds 
many of them in the shady margin of the. wood, 
or in the sunny meadow, where no visible hand 
ever cultivates them, and where the feet of the 
lovers of pleasure seldom stray in search of 
them. They are wild flowers wrought into ex- 
quisite beauty and sweetness, by unaided heat 
and moisture. They bear no mark of human 
skill. They exhale no other perfume than that 
which was given them in Paradise. 

And so it is with the diviner nature of man, 
that blossoms into expression in poetry and the 
plastic and pictorial arts. Its spontaneous utter- 
ances by souls in shadow or secluded sunshine, 
are often more perfect interpreters of that diviner 
nature, than are the displays of the culture of 
the schools. They are wild flowers of the spirit, 
— sweet, modest, and unpretending. 

Of such flowers this little volume is com- 
1 



2 MEMOIR. 

posed. These, and many others that bloomed 
in the fancy and imagination of the author, 
have been gathered and preserved by the hand 
of his eldest surviving son as a filial duty ; and 
it has been my office only to select the most at- 
tractive and bind them into a bouquet. That, 
task has been a labor of love, for the writer of 
these verses was a tried friend of my youth and 
of my mature r years. 

To the friends of William Wilson, no more 
need be said. To strangers I will here tell all 
the story of his life which they may care to 
know, or which it is proper for them to know. 

At the foot of the lofty Grampian Hills in 
Perthshire, near the picturesque centre of Scot- 
land, is the village of Crieff. There William 
Wilson was born on Christmas Day, in the year 
1801. When he was five years of age, his 
mother, a high-spirited Scotch Highlander, be- 
came a widow. Her husband had been a gener- 
ous and unsuspicious merchant in Crieff, and by 
the knavery of others was made almost penniless 
before his death. Sympathizing friends offered 
the widow pecuniary aid. She steadily refused 
to accept it, for, with innate independence, she 
relied upon her own industry as an expert spin- 
ner for a maintenance for herself and family. 
She had a hard and weary struggle, for she 
often earned no more than eight cents a day, 
though toiling from dawn till almost midnight. 



MEMOIR. 3 

Willie was the widow's best-loved child. He 
was bright, beautiful, and affectionate. He 
never entered a school as a pupil, but his mother 
taught him to read before he was six years of 
age. And long winter nights, when she was 
toiling with her wheel and distaff, he would sit 
upon an old counterpane spread for him upon 
the bare floor of the cottage, near a poor turf- 
fire, without shoes or stockings (for he had 
none), and read to her from the blessed Book of 
Life, until his eyelids longed for sleep. Then 
she would charm him bv singing old Scottish 
ballads, in the lore of which she was deeply 
versed. She sang the strains of her native land 
with unusual sweetness and warmth of feeling ; 
and she early imparted to the child a love of 
music, poetry, and romance which gave tone to 
his intellectual life ever afterward. 

At the age of seven years Willie was employed 
by a farmer not far from his mother's cottage, 
in tending cows upon a moor. He was delighted, 
for a love of nature was a dominant emotion of 
his heart. His most attractive companions there 
were the Bible, " The Pilgrim's Progress," and a 
tattered volume of " Scotch Ballads." These he 
would read until his eyes were aweary, when he 
would sing the ballad of Chevy Chace, or some 
other stirring story in verse. 

A few years later, young Wilson and his 



4 MEMOIR. 

mother were living in the populous city of 
Glasgow, where he was apprenticed to the busi- 
ness of folding and packing cloth, and putting 
it into various forms for a foreign market. He 
became an excellent "lapper," as those who 
practiced that business were called ; and he won 
the respect and confidence of his master by ex- 
cellent deportment at all times. He spent his 
leisure hours in reading and study ; and his chief 
place of resort at such times was the street book- 
stall of a good-natured dealer, where, standing by 
the shelves, he read Young's " Night Thoughts " 
twice through. He finally saved enough money, 
after months of self-denial, to buy the book for 
fifty cents. That was the beginning of a library 
which, four years later, was greater in the num- 
ber of its volumes than that of his parish minister. 
It was at the beginning of his apprenticeship in 
Glasgow that he made his first attempts to ac- 
quire the art of writing. He was so successful 
in self-culture, that at the end of a year he 
acted as subordinate clerk in the establishment. 
Young Wilson was very fond of music ; and 
he was so good a singer at the age of fifteen 
years, that he chanted a solo at a grand concert 
in Traders' Hall, Glasgow. A year later he was 
precentor or leader of a choir in psalmody in a 
parish church near that city. He had already 
composed several songs of considerable merit, 



MEMOIR. ") 

but his modesty caused their concealment from 
his most intimate friends. 

At about that time he met Jane, the beautiful 
daughter of William M'Kenzie, of whom he 
said, in after years, " She was the sweetest, 
purest, gentlest, and kindest of her sex that ever 
I looked upon, or ever will." She was younger 
than he, — a child in years and simplicity of 
heart. They became fond of each other ; and 
they sometimes spent a whole day together in 
a secluded little fir-coppice in a dell near the 
suburbs of the city. There, on a bright after- 
noon, they " plighted their troth " to each other, 
when each pulled a fir-tap from the tree that 
shaded them, which they exchanged and kept as 
a token of their engagement After that, " fir- 
taps " was a love watch-word between them that 
puzzled their friends ; and the riddle was not 
explained until, before he was eighteen years of 
age, the gentle Jane became his wife. He was 
yet a cloth-lapper, but the business, then declin- 
ing, soon failed altogether. For eight months 
during his early married life, he was without 
regular employment, and felt the pinchings of 
poverty most severely. But his love for his wife 
was such an inspiration, that he was happy dur- 
ing the darkest hours of that night. 

Morning soon dawned. The young lapper 
found employment in the establishment of Adam 



6 MEMOIR. 

Reid, in Dundee, whose son was the editor of 
the " Dundee Review." Wilson worked for his 
employer from six o'clock in the morning until 
ten o'clock at night. After which, while others 
slept, he wrote prose and poetry for the " Re- 
view," over the signature of " Alpin." He was, 
in fact, the Editor's chief assistant. He was 
also a contributor to other periodicals, but al- 
ways over a fictitious signature, for then, as all 
through life, he disliked notoriety. 

In 1824 Mr. Wilson became the conductor of 
the Dundee " Literary Olio," a periodical issued 
fortnightly. He yet continued lapping, and was 
pursuing that vocation late in the following year 
when a Danish author, named Feldburg, travel- 
ling: in Scotland, tarried a little while in Dundee. 
Charmed by some of Wilson's poetry in the 
" Dundee Magazine," the Dane visited the au- 
thor, and promised to do what he might to pro- 
cure for him a more lucrative employment. At 
Edinburgh he commended him to Sir John 
Sinclair and other leading citizens, as a young 
man of genius, worthy of their patronage. Wil- 
son was invited to the Scottish metropolis, and 
was a guest at the table of men of note there, 
who assisted him in starting the business of a 
coal commission-merchant. The eminent and 
venerable Mrs. Grant, of Laggan (better known 
in this country by her charming volume of 



MEMOIR. 7 

ante-revolutionary reminiscences entitled " Me- 
moirs of an American Lady "), became deeply 
interested in him, and was his warm friend as 
long as she lived. 

Mr. Wilson formed a partnership with his 
younger brother. Business thrived for a while. 
Their customers were many and influential. 
Robert Chambers, his early and life-long friend, 
said in a letter to Mr. Wilson's eldest son, writ- 
ten not long ago : " A man of very great note, 
Sir William Hamilton, was a fast friend of the 
young coal-merchant. There was, at this time, 
something very engaging in his appearance : a 
fair open countenance, ruddy with the bloom of 
health ; manners soft and pleasing ; language 
and elocution free from all vulgarity." 

It was now the beginning of the year 1826. 
Luminous beyond all precedent then seemed to 
him the orb of hope. It was suddenly eclipsed. 
His young wife, who was his idol and the mother 
of his four children, died. At her bedside, 
while watching without intermission and trem- 
bling with anxiety, and by her lifeless body when 
hope was extinguished, he wrote the touching 
poem in this volume entitled " Mary," a name 
by which he often addressed her in verse. Un- 
der that heavy blow his health and spirits were 
crushed for a season. At length he sought and 
found relief from wearing sorrow in his desolated 



8 MEMOIR. 

household, in composition. Prose and verse 
flowed from his pen in full measure. His songs 
were popular ; and his musical compositions were 
admired. One of his songs was sung repeatedly 
with applause, in the theatre at Edinburgh, by 
one of the most eminent of the feminine singers 
of the time. He was an ever-welcome con- 
tributor to the " Edinburgh Literary Journal," 
and other periodicals in Scotland and in Lon- 
don ; and he enjoyed the friendship and esteem 
of many intellectual men of that day 

The death of his wife gave a soberer tone to 
Mr. Wilson's after-life. The memory of her 
perfections, linked with a deep religious senti- 
ment which pervaded his whole nature, inspired 
much of his verse. Time, the great healer, 
closed the wounds made by sharp sorrow, and 
several years after his bereavement, the happi- 
ness of his earlier life was renewed by marriage 
with Miss Jane Sibbald, a beautiful and accom- 
plished young woman, and member of one of 
the oldest families in the County of Roxburg. 
She was a true mother to his " mitherless 
bairns," and in character, the reverse of the one 
hinted at in his poem entitled " The Mitherless 
Wean." A score of years after this marriage, 
he said, in a lecture on u The Philosophy of 
Home," given before a literary association in this 
country : " Were it fitting, I could tell you of a 



MEMOIR. 9 

step-mother, who for twenty years has filled that 
ungracious and much maligned duty, whose un- 
deviating aim has been to screen, qualify, and ex- 
plain away the faults and follies of her step-chil- 
dren, and who, in the unselfish nobility of her 
nature, has never once appeared to be conscious 
which portion of the family was hers and which 
that of her predecessor." 

Mr. Wilson continued his mercantile business 
and literary recreation, in Edinburgh, until De- 
cember, 1833, when he left his home in Mel- 
ville Place, with a moderate capital, and emi- 
grated to the United States. He passed the re- 
mainder of the winter, after his arrival, in the 
city of New York, and in the spring of 1834, 
he went into the interior of Pennsylvania with 
the intention of investing his capital in land or 
merchandise there. His purpose was changed 
when his family arrived in New York in July ; 
and at the close of that month he went with 
them to the village of Poughkeepsie, on the bank 
of the Hudson River, where he established a 
bookstore and circulating library. From that 
time until within a few weeks of his death, on 
the 25th of August, 1860, he was engaged in the 
book trade in Poughkeepsie as publisher, binder, 
and seller, a part of the time in partnership with 
the late Paraclete Potter (brother of the bish- 
op), but a greater portion of the time alone. 



10 MEMOIR 

Mr. Wilson was a most attentive and laborious 
business man, yet he found time to write much 
and well for the periodicals of Great Britain and 
this country. He was always an acceptable con- 
tributor to the Edinburgh " Literary Journal," 
" Chambers' Journal," and others. During his 
earlier residence in Poughkeepsie, he wrote 
some excellent poems for " Tait's Magazine," over 
his old signature of " Alpin." In a collection of 
Scottish poetry, published in Glasgow in 1844, 
and another collection, in six volumes, published 
in Edinburgh in 1857, there are several poems 
from his pen which display great delicacy of 
sentiment, vigor of thought, and artistic con- 
struction. 

Mr. Wilson seldom published his compositions 
over his own name ; and when, many years ago, 
his eldest son proposed the issuing of a collection 
of his poems in a volume, he said, " Pray, think 
no more about it. I have no objection to be 
quizzed by a few private friends who may affect 
to admire my rubbish, but I have no wish to be 
the target of the public. I know, moreover, 
that although you might like to hear me sing 
to half a dozen friends at your own fireside and 
mine, it does not follow that you would equally 
relish an exhibition of my vocality in Tripler 
Hall." Later, his modest scruples were par- 
tially overcome ; and a few months before his 



MEMOIR. 1 1 

death, he told me that he had thought of mak- 
ing a selection of his poems for publication in a 
volume. That willingness is his son's warrant 
for issuing this little book. 

Mr. Wilson's writings for the press of this 
country — among them the " New York Even- 
ing Post," " The Albion," " The Knickerbocker 
Magazine," and others — bore the assumed name 
of " Allan Grant." Over that signature he 
made many contributions to "The Church Rec- 
ord," edited and published in Chicago by his 
younger son. These were mostly poetic ef- 
fusions. Among his prose contributions to that 
periodical were a series of extracts from the 
u Diary and Correspondence of Samuel Pepys," 
a courtier of the times of the later Stuarts. 
These he introduced by a racy general preface 
and charming intenveaving paragraphs from his 
own pen, and the papers were signed " W. W." 
He continued these contributions until a short 
time before his death. He was passionately 
fond of music, and left several compositions of 
considerable merit. A few months before his 
death he composed an air of great beauty to a 
poem by his friend Hew Ainslee, the venerable 
Scotch poet, who survives him. 

True, just, and honorable in all his dealings, 
a warm and active friend of the deserving, and 
liberal to those in need and in the promotion of 



12 MEMOIR. 

public benefactions, so far as a prude; .t man- 
agement of his affairs would allow, Mr. Wilson 
was highly esteemed by all as an excellent citi- 
zen. Fluent in conversation, well educated 
possessed of an extensive and critical knowl- 
edge of books and their authors, he was a most 
agreeable and instructive companion for intelli- 
gent men. Retiring and unobtrusive, he was 
seldom seen in social life excepting in business 
relations, or as a worshipper in the temple on 
the Sabbath day. Only a few knew his real 
moral and intellectual worth. The few who ap- 
preciated him, and shared his confidence and 
friendship, remember with pleasure his genial 
good-nature, the exuberance of his spirits, his 
fund of anecdote, and his pure and delightful 
social qualities as exhibited under his own roof. 
In his family he was a strict disciplinarian, 
according to old country notions ; but he was 
ever tender, affectionate, kind, generous, and 
winning. And had he published his collection 
of poems when he contemplated it, he might 
have truthfully dedicated it to his children in 
the following words, which he wrote for his 
friend, John Aitken, Editor of the " London 
Cabinet," as the dedication to his children of 
one of the volumes of that publication : — 

Yes, my young darlings, since my task is done, 
Affain I'll mingle in vour freaks and fun ; 



MEMOIR. 13 

Be glad, be gay, be thoughtless if I can, 
And merge the busy worldling in the man. 

Not the stiff pedagogxie, with brow severe, 
Authoritative air and look austere, 
But the fond sire with feelings long repress'd, 
Eager to bless, as eager to be bless'd, 
Longing in home's dear sanctuary to find 
The smiling lips, the embrace, the kiss so kind, 
The cloudless brow, the bearing frank and free, 
The gladdening shout of merriment and glee, 
And all the luxury which boisterous mirth 
Scattered, erewhile, around our social hearth. 

Bemember ye. my sweet ones, with what " pomp 

And circumstance " of glee we used to romp 

From room to room, o'er tables, stools, and chairs, 

O'erturning household gods — now up the stair.-, 

Now under sofas, now in corners hiding, 

Now in, now out, now round the garden gliding 1 

Remember ye — when under books and toys 

The table groaned, and evening's tranquil joys 

Soothed your excited spirits to repose — 

How, blithe as larks, at peep of dawn ye rose 1 

Pleased every moment, mirthful every hour, 

As bees love sunshine, or as ducks the shower, 

No ills annoyed you, pleasures never pall'd, 

Care ne'er corroded, nor repinings gall'd, 

But like blithe birds, from clime to clime that fly, 

Each change brought blossoms and a cloudless sky, — 

"But now Papa's grown strange, and will not speak, 

Nor play at blind-man's buff, nor hide-and-seek ; 

Tell no more stories ere Ave go to bed, 

Nor kiss us when our evening prayers are said, 

But still, with thoughtful look and brow of gloom, 



] 4 MEMOIR. 

He stalks in silence to his study room, 
Nor ever seeks our evening sports to share ; 
Why, what can dear Papa be doing there 1 " 

Such were the thoughts which oft in tears gush'd forth, 
Amid the pauses of your infant mirth, 
And dimmed the lustre of your bright blue eyes — 
As wandering clouds obscure the moonlit skies, 
Making their misty mellowness even more 
Soul-soothing than the glorious light before. 

'Mid laureled literature's elysian bowers, 
I've been a-roaming, culling fadeless flowers, 
And these collected treasures at your feet 
I lay, ye beautiful ! " Sweets to the sweet." 

Yet all too soon I dedicate to you 
Flowers of such rich perfume and varied hue, 
O'er which the deathless fire of genius breathed ; 
And all too soon this garland I have wreathed, 
To win me favor in your infant eyes ; 
Though years may come when ye will fondly prize 
Affection's fond memorials, given to prove 
The doating fondness of a father's love ; 
Love, full as ocean's waters, firm as faith, 
Wide as the universe, and strong as death. 



Such, in brief outline, is a picture of the more 
salient points in the life and character of the 
author of this volume of poems. It is but the 
familiar illustration of those of a thousand others 
who have soared up from the shadows of poverty 
and social obscurity on the wings of their own 



MEMOIR. 15 

inherent excellencies, into the upper light and 
air of usefulness, honor, and distinction. He 
experienced, in its broadest sense, as others have 
done, the truth of the assurance of the sacred 
Proverbialist, who said, " Seest thou a man dil- 
igent in his business? he shall stand before 
kings ; he shall not stand before mean men.*' 

B. J. L. 
The Ridge, Dover, N. Y.. 1869. 



POEMS. 



SABBATH MORNING IN THE WOODS. 

O blessed moral whose ruddy beam 
Of gladness mantles fount and stream, 
And over all created things 
A golden robe of glory flings. 

On every tendril, leaf, and spray, 

A diamond glistens in the ray, 

And from a thousand throats a shout 

Of adoration gushes out, - — 

A glad but sweet preclusive psalm 

Which breaks the hallowed morning's calm. 

Each wimpling brook, each winding rill, 
That sings and murmurs on at will, 
Seems vocal with the blest refrain, — 
" The Lord has come to life again ! " 

And from each wild-flower on the wold, 
In purple, sapphire, snow, or gold, 
Pink, amethyst, or azure hue, 
Beauteous of tint and bright with dew, 



18 SABBATH MORNING IN THE WOODS. 

There breathes an incense off'ring, borne 
Upon the wakening breeze of morn 
To the Creator, all divine ! — 
Meet sacrifice for such a shrine. 

Far clown those lofty forest aisles, 
Where twilight's solemn hush prevails, 
The wind its balmv censer swings 
Like odors from an angel's wings, 
Who, passing swift to earth, had riven 
Their fragrance from the bowers of heaven. 

And through each sylvan tangled hall 
Where slanting bars of sunlight fall, 
Faint sounds of hallelujahs sweet 
The tranced ear would seem to gree% 
As if the holy seraphim 
Were choiring here their matin hymn. 

God of all nature ! here I feel 

Thy awful presence, as I kneel 

In humble, heart-abasement meet, 

Thus lowly at Thy mercy seat ; 

And while I tremble I adore 

(Like him by Bethel's stone of yore), 

For this Thy vouchsafed presence given 

Hath made this place the gate of heaven. 



NATURE'S WORSHIP, 

What means this sleepless longing 
For the open sapphire sky ? 

Those restless wishes thronging, 
That like falcon I might fly 
To the mountains towering high ? 

Away from reeking alleys, 

With their swelt'ring heat and din. 

To the blessed hills and valleys, 
Where, assoiled from mortal sin, 
Peace of spirit I might win. 

I loathe the steaming city, 
With its mis'ries manifold, 

And its ever during ditty, 

" Give us gold — O, give us gold ! 
Heap'd, unmeasur'd, and untold." 

There the hollow pomp of fashion, 
With its apish airs of pride, 

And the baleful fire of passion, 
Flinging ruin far and wide, 
Heav'n from the hearth doth hide. 



20 NATURE'S WORSHIP. 

These have soil'd the robes of brightness, 
That the soul in Eden wore, 

And have marr'd the spirit's lightness. 
From the ancient days of yore — 
And will mar it evermore. 

From the rich man's pillar'd temple, 
With its carv'd and fretted roof, 

And cushion'd stalls so ample, 
The poor man must stand aloof, 
Or endure pride's stern reproof. 

My spirit shuns communion 
With the robe-bedizen'd crowd, 

That in freezing formal union, 
And with aspect cold and proud, 
Mumble orisons aloud. 

But roams where brooks are gliding 
Through the deep embow'ring dells, 

And violets are hiding, 

'Neath the laden fox-glove bells, 
Where the wild bees' bugle swells. 

Seeks the old woods' leafy ceiling, 
With their cloister'd vistas dim, 

When summer winds are pealing 
Forth their incense-breathing hymn 
To the list'ning seraphim. 



NATURE'S WORSHIP. 21 

There in fervor, lowly kneeling 
On the consecrated sod, 

In silent prayer appealing, 
From my anchorite abode, 
I would humbly worship God. 



O, BLESSING ON THEE, LAND! 

0, blessing on thee, land 

Of love and minstrel song; 
For freedom found a dwelling-place 

Thy mountain cliffs among! 
And still she loves to roam 

Among thy heath-clad hills, 
And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain 

With the voice of mountain rills. 



Her song is on the gale, 

Her step upon the wold ; 
And morning diamonds brightly gem 

Her braided locks of gold. 
Far up the pine-wood glen, 

Her sylph-like form is seen, 
By hunter in the hazy dawn, 

Or wandering bard at e'en. 

My own dear native home, 
The birthplace of the brave, 

O, never may thy soil be trod 
By tyrant or by slave ! 



0, BLESSING OX THEE, LAND! 23 

Then, blessing on thee, land 

Of love and minstrel song ; 
For freedom found a dwelling-place 

Thy mountain cliffs among ! 



SONG OF THE WESTERN SETTLER. 

Why did I leave fair Branksome's towers, 

Why did I leave sweet Teviot glen, 
Its daisied banks and hazel bowers, 

Kind collie, plaid, and blithe sheep-pen ? 
O, there is not a rushy den, 

Clear wimpling burn, or brier brake, 
But in my bosom stirs a train 

Of mournful thoughts that make it ache. 

Oft, dreams of Albion's sea-bound isle 

Steal o'er my slumber with their balm ; 
I hear a song, I meet a smile, 

At blighting in the gloaming-calm. 
Anon the reverential psalm, 

From straw-thatched cot, will fancy hear, 
And kneeling low with joined palm, 

Breathe the heart-uttered prayer sincere. 

Then round me gathered faces dear, 
That kindly words of welcome speak ; 

My father's smile — the glistening tear 
Of gladness on my mother's cheek. 



SONG OF THE WESTERN SETTLER. 25 

One form my wandering eye doth seek, 
My plighted Marion — " nearest, best, 

Come hither with those looks so meek, 
And let me fold thee to my breast." 

But morning comes, and with it wake 
My bleeding sorrows fresh again, 

And I must to my toil betake, 
Beside that fatal marshy fen. 



Could I again in Teviot vale 

Wander when gloaming hour was near, 
And hearken to the cushat's wail, 

Or blackbird piping to his dear, 
Or listen'd with delighted ear 

The soaring laverock's vesper song, 
Blent with the lintie's warblings clear, 

That pipes the yellow broom among, — 

Then light of heart and lithe of limb, 

I'd belt my plaid and grasp my kent, 
And by the holy twilight dim, 

Would hie me to the upland bent. 
There with the star-gemm'd firmament 

Above me for my temple dome, 
I'd kneel and ask of heaven — content — 

A shepherd's lot and Scottish home. 



KING ROBERT THE BRUCE. 

He sat alone on a mossy cairn, 

And leant on his bloody brand, 
While his look grew vengeful, dark, and stern, 

With thoughts of his injured land. 
Where is the plaided warrior host 

He marshal'd at morning tide ? 
On the battle-field with banner lost, 

They are slumbering side by side ! 
And he like a hunted felon flies 

To the hills of his native home, 
In mountain shepherd's lowly guise, 

Through the wilderness to roam. 

On steep Benvoirlich's storm-beaten crest, 

The eagle is monarch there ; 
And low in the heathy vale at rest, 

The red deer couch in their lair. 
The hill-fox hies to his craggy den, 

The bittern to sedgy brake, 
But the Bruce must shun the haunts of men, 

An outcast for Scotland's sake. 
What kingly daring and might could dare, 

That good King Robert did he ; 
Now falls his grief on the desert air 

For the knight of Ellerslie : 



KING ROBERT THE BRUCE. 27 

" 0, for the sword of the Wallace now, 

With its lightning flash of doom ! 
When the battle flush was on his brow 

And victory on his plume ! 
When like the whirlwind's wrathful sweep, 

He rushed to the deadly fray, 
While the foe fell round him heap on heap, 

As the mower swaths the hay. 
And back like frighten'd deer they fled, 

Each hurrying rank on rank, 
As the stern avenger's angry blade 

Gleamed red on rear and flank. 

" Then rung fair Scotland's stormy hurra, 

As she waved her bonnet blue, 
While o'er her warrior's thick array 

Her proud lion-banner flew. 
And that lion-banner yet shall stream 

Uncheck'd from strand to strand, 
And the broad claymore 'mid victory gleam 

In each plaided hero's hand ! 
Then from her trance shall Freedom wake, 

And her trumpet blast be blown, 
Till haughty English Edward quake 

On his loftv tvrant throne." 



THE RARE OLD FRIENDS. 

The rare old friends, the dear old friends, 

How fast they pass away ! 
Fast as the vernal blossom showers 

Fall from the leafy spray. 

And in their dark and silent homes 

We lay them, one by one, 
Each like a planet from our heaven, 

Forever quenched and gone. 

The rare old friends, the dear old friends, 

The trusted and the true ; 
How wane they from our weeping sight, 

As dries the summer dew. 

We miss them on the crowded mart, 

We miss them in the hall, 
And by the vacant ingleside — 

0, saddest blank of all. 

To gaze into the frozen eye 
From which the light is gone, 

To speak, and hear no loving voice 
Replying to our own ; 



THE RARE OLD FRIENDS. 29 

To strain them to our bleeding heart, 

As if their flight to stay, 
And O, the cruel thought to know, — 

We clasp but lifeless clay. 

So stealeth night upon our sky ; 

Yet 'mid its pall-like gloom, 
Faith points, with angel smile, to worlds 

Of bliss beyond the tomb. 

Then let them pass, those dear old friends, 

As autumn's honors fall, 
They soon shall call us hence, and we 

Shall answer to their call. 

Why linger at the banquet board 

When all the guests are flown? 
No ! let us seek that land of love 

Where all the loved are gone. 



THE MITHERLESS WEAN. 

If ye ever rejoic'd in the sweets o' a hame, 
If ye still have a mither to luve an' to 
bless ; 
0, pity, kind stranger, a puir beggar wean 
That has nae hame to seek, an' is mither- 
less! 
0, pity, kind stranger, for ance like thee 
I was ane o' a happy familie ! 

F the morning we raise wi' the loud liltin' 
lark, 
When he dried his dewy wings in the 
young sunbeam ; 

An' wi' hearts fu' o' luve sent our praise up 
to Heaven 
An' our prayers for what to him best might 
seem. 

An' she that's awa' — wi' an uplifted ee — 

Sought the blessing o' the Lord on our In- 
dustrie. 

A' day lang we toil'd, but we never repined, 
Our dear mither lo'ed us, our father ay was 
kind, 



THE MITHERLESS WEAN. 31 

An' our hearts then a' pure, were as licht as 
the down 
O' the thistle, when it frolics wi' the way- 
ward wind ; 

Whate'er Heaven sent we were gladsome to 
see, 

An' we ne'er thoct our day's daurk a drudgerie. 

An' when gloamin' cam' on, nicht's dark har- 
binger, 
O, then cam the hours o' our innocent 
mirth 

When we gather'd wi' joy 'neath our cot's 
lowly roof, 
An' wi' faces a' smilin' encircled the hearth, 

An' beguil'd the e'en wi' tales o' the deeds 
that wont to be, 

Or wi' sangs o' our Kubra's auld minstrelsie. 

An' O, it was sweet when the nicht was 
gane, 
To raise high the holy Psalmodie, 
An' to read in the book, o' the love o' our 
God, 
An' to kneel to Him rev'rentlie : 
An' to bless his name, wha has sworn to be 
The puir man's God continuallie. 



32 THE MITHERLESS WEAN. 

But wae's my sad heart ! thae bricht days are 
gane 
An' a lanof nicht o' sadness an' sorrow is 
nigh, 
For the finger o' death touch'd the face o' 
my mither 
An' her well-spring o' life dribblet dry : 
An' she slippit awa' like the mists that ye see 
Stealin' upward to heaven sae bonnilie. 

An' ere spring had spread its green o'er her 
grave, 
An unco woman sat in her auld chair — 
His new wife, father ca'd her — an' he said 
she wad hae 
A mither's luve for us, an' a kind mith- 
er's care ; 
0, how could she e'er be a mither to me 
That spake o' the dead sae scornfullie. — 

Fu* soon on our stools her bairns were a' 
planted 
Round the ingle that erst burnt sae cheerilie. 
An' frae hame we were driven — an' the door 
barr'd against us 
To drift through a wide warld wearily. 
An' 0, sad are the days that the wretched 

maun dree 
Wha wander through the warld friendlesslie. 



THE M/TEERLESS WEAN. 33 

If ye ever rejoiced in the sweets o' a name, 
If ye still ha'e a mither to love an' to 
bless, 
0, pity, kind stranger, a puir beggar wean 
That has nae hame to seek, an' is mither- 
less. 
0, pity, kind stranger, an' frae heaven hie 
The God o' the puir will bless thy charitie. 



BONNIE MARY. 

When the sun gaes doun, when the sun gaes 

doun, 
I'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun 

gaes doun ; 
I'll row my apron up, and I'll leave the reeky 

town, 
And meet thee by the burnie when the sun 

gaes doun. 

By the burnie there's a bower, we will gently 

lean us there, 
An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care, 
For the chiefest of my joys in this weary 

mortal roun' 
Is the burnside wi' Mary, when the sun gaes 

doun. 

When the sun gaes doun, etc. 

There's the ruined castle tower on the distant 

steep appears, 
Like a hoarv auld warrior faded with vears ; 



BONNIE MARY. 35 

An the burnie stealin' by wi' a fairy silver 

soun' 
Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun 

gaes doun. 

When the sun gaes doun, etc. 

The burnie is sweet when the dew is on the 

flower, 
•But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour. 
An' with pity I would look on the king who 

wears the crown 
When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun 

gaes doun. 

When the sun gaes doun, etc. 

When the sun gaes doun, when the sun gaes 

doun, 
I'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun 

gaes down ; 
Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget 

gown, 
An' I'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the 

sun gaes doun. 



HYMN. 

Thou who art beyond the praise 
Of holy minist'ring seraphim, 

With trembling joy may I not raise 
To Thee my grateful, lowly theme ? 

Yes ! leprosied all o'er with sin, 
And worm of dust although I be, 

Omnipotent and Holy One, 

I lift my soul in praise to Thee. 

1 bless Thee for the love which tells 
Of Him that for the guilty died; 

I bless Thee for the stream which wells 
In healthful murmurs from His side. 

O, bathe me there ; O, wash me white, 
And free from every mortal stain ; 

Restore the inner man to sight, 
And bid my spirit live again. 



MARY. 

WRITTEN IN JANUARY, 1826. 

Start not, my love, 'twas but the midnight 
bell 
Pealing its drowsy notes upon thine ear, 
In measured tones of dreariness which knell 

The solemn dirge of the departed year, 
Dying in melancholy deep farewell. 

O, how that lengthened chime was wont to 
cheer 
Us with its magic ; why so charmless now ? 
The dew of sickness stands upon thy burning- 
brow. 

There was a time, my own belov'd, when I 
Did rouse thee up to revel at that sound ; 

And now I sit beside thy couch, and siMi 
To watch thy throbbing bosom's fevered 
bound, 

Or read the wishes of thy languid eye 

That wanders vacantly the chamber round, 

Until it fix with steady smile on him 

On whom alone aye falls its fondest, warmest 
beam. 



38 MARY. 

0, Mary dearest, seven years have past, 
Since we were one in feeling, future, soul, 

And every year seemed happier than the last, 
Because we loved each other with the whole 

Of our affections, which no time can blast, 
Change alienate, nor circumstance control ; 

For passing years but beautify our chain, 

As rivers widen as they onward near the 
main. 

Thy thoughts are wandering, love ; this is no 
bower, 
There is no streamlet rippling 'mong the 
broom. 
Are we not now alone, at midnight hour, 

Keeping our vigil by that taper's gloom ? 
Here is no singing bird, nor shrub, nor 
flower, 
Flinging upon the breeze its rich perfume ; 
Save I thy own bird, that, too sad to sing, 
Sits by thy couch with weary, drooping wing. 

My drooping flower, thy cheek is flushed, thy 
lip 
Is parched with withering drought, and 
deeply pale. 
But come, this cooling goblet thou shalt sip. 
'Twill quench its burning ; O, let me prevail 
Upon thee, sweetest, but to quaff this cup, 
And like the mist before the mountain gale, 



MAR Y. 39 

Or evening's shadows at the dawn of day, 
These wildering fantasies will quickly fade 
away. 

I cannot sing, my love, yet faint and low, 
I'll breathe that melody thou lov'st to hear ; 

O could the strain but half as softly flow. 
As when I potir'd it first upon thine ear, 

Then ecstasy would light that brow of snow, 
And brighten up that eye's dimmed atmos- 
phere, 

As breaks the sunbeam through the morning 

mists 
Serene and beauteous; list now, my lov'd 

one, list : 



HYMN. 

O there's a land of life and light, 
Where sickness never ventured, 

A paradise of pure delight, 
Where sorrow never entered. 

There nought to bid the bosom ache, 
Or cloud the brow with sadness, 

But every heart to joy awake, 
Forever tuned to gladness. 

And there the ransomed spirits dwell, 
By life's immortal river, 



40 MARY. 

The raptured song of love to swell. 
Forever and forever. 

A little while in darkness here, 
We, weeping, onward wander ; 

But death shall every fetter tear, 
Which keeps fond souls asunder. 

The grave is but our couch of rest, 
Where, freed from sin and sorrow, 

We'll sleep until we join the blest 
On judgment's glorious morrow. 



SLEEP. 

My wounded dove, the soothing strain, 
Like summer shower on thirsty plain, 
Hath for a while beguiled thy woes, 
And lulled thee into calm repose. 

Then slumber, love, slumber, love, softly and 
bland, 

May thy visions be all of the heavenly land. 

And 'neath the cadence of the lay, 

Thy veering fancies died away ; 

As melts the dreamer's grief, when clear 

The voice of morning meets his ear. 
Then slumber, love, slumber, love, softly and 

bland, 
May thy visions be all of the heavenly land. 



MARY. 41 



DEATH. 



My loved one, why that anguished start? 

Thy pale lips' silent quiver? 
The sigh that seemed to rend thy heart? 

That wild convulsive shiver? 

And wherefore not return the kiss 
'Mid burning tears I gave thee ? 

Why heedless of his deep distress 
That now would die to save thee? 

One word, one softly whispered word, 

Before we part forever, 
Ere yet thy spirit be restored 

To its Almighty Giver. 



And art thou then at rest from pain, 
Released from all thy sorrow, 

And wilt thou never wake again 
To welcome in the morrow ? 

Then earth no more my heart shall claim, 
Since death the bond hath riven : 

But up through nature's vast domain, 
'Twill follow thee to heaven. 



42 MARY. 



DECAY 



The strife is o'er, and calmly now, 
On that cold alabaster brow, 
The glow of beauty lingers still 
Like moonlight on a snowy hill. 

And on that death-cold marble cheek 
The last faint fading roseate streak 
Of life, like sunlight on the wave, 
Plays yet as if to mock the grave. 

But o'er that mild blue, dove-like eye, 
Like clouds athwart the moonlit sky, 
The darkening haze of death hath passed. 
And all its glory overcast. r 

My beauteous idol now o'erturned 
For whom my soul's best incense burned, 
To whom my spirit bent the knee, 
Alas ! why is it thus with thee ? 

Yet wherefore ask ? that lip so pale, 
Though mute reveals the awful tale ; 
And that fixed eye, though closed, can teach 
More moving truths than priests can preach. 

But vain is grief, regret is vain, 

Since now the soul hath burst its chain, 



MARY. 13 

Broke from its prison-house abode, 
And sought the bosom of its God. 

And what remaineth here but clay, 
Fast hastening onward to decay ? 
But glorified it yet shall rise 
To meet immortals in the skies. 

One farewell kiss, but not forever, 
For though a few brief years we sever, 
Rejoined we yet shall bask for aye, 
In sunshine of eternal daw 



DIRGE. 

My sun of gladness now though set, 
Thou shalt arise in beauty yet, 
Serene and cloudless, on to blaze 
In an immortal length of days. 

No setting there, no darkening cloud 
Thy blissful dream of joy to shroud ; 
For thee, the Lord in might sublime 
Gives light to all that lovely clime. 

My star of bliss whose shrouded beam 
No more upon my sight shall gleam, 
Since thou art set, a purer ray 
Shall cheer me on my heavenward way. 



4 I MAE Y. 

Yea, He the bright and morning-star, 
Shall shine upon my path afar, 
Till earthly perils all are past, 
Then take me home to heaven at last. 

Farewell, farewell, the darksome grave 
All that is dust again shall have, 
But the immortal part hath gone 
To put its robes of glory on ; 

Hath sought with the redeemed to shart- 
The song of rapture rising there, 
To join the everlasting psalm 
Of adoration to the Lamb. 



. EPITAPH. 

Pause, reader, o'er this lowly bed, 
Where one that erst did live is laid. 
Brief was her race, but nobly run ; 
The goal is reached, the crown is won. 

All that was gentle, pure, refined, 
Benignant, winning, courteous, kind, 
She was ; but words are vain, for she 
Was all that womankind should be. 



MARY. 45 

In this cold world's unkindly soil, 
Her virtues shed their sweets awhile ; 
But when the warning word was given, 
She burst her bonds and sprung to heaven. 



STANZAS TO A LADY. 

Sweet lady ! I tell thee thou need'st not 
tremble, 
Unwarily should thy soft fingers touch 
mine ; 
I love thee not, girl, — why should I dis- 
semble ? 
My heart is another's — it ne'er can be 
thine. 

And if thou wouldst know who that heart has 
a keeping, 
And wherefore my brow is still shadowed 
with care? 
Or why all my gladness is changed into weep- 
ing ? 
Go ask the dark grave — for my idol is 
there. 

Oh ! it was not the spell of her dark ringlets 
wreathing 
Around the white neck so surpassingly fair, 



STANZAS TO A LADY. 47 

Nor the music that seemed from that soft 
bosom breathing, 
As if telling how kind was the heart that 
beat there. 

It was not the calm of her brow's snowy 
whiteness 
That won my heart's homage from all else 
on earth ; 
Nor the glance of her eloquent eyes' thrilling 
brightness, 
Still sweetliest beaming when by her own 
hearth. 

'Twas the smile on the ruddy lip ever repos- 
ing* 
When no one was near to applaud or con- 
demn ; 
The sunshine within, of the pure soul disclos- 
ing; 
The bliss of the spirit — the blaze of the 
gem. 

She waned not as light from the landscape at 
even, 
As mist from the mountain, or snow from 
the hill,— 
But passed as a star from the azure of heaven, 
A flash from the cloud, or a ray from the 
rill. 



48 STANZAS TO A LADY. 

My sainted, my loved one, my lost earthly 
treasure — 
All pure and beatified now as thou art, 
Thine, dearest, thine be my harp's latest meas- 
ure, 
The last sigh of my soul, the last throb of 
my heart ! 



EULALIE. 

There was a man in noon of life, 
Of passions ardent, deep, and warm, 

Who sought by turns repose and strife, 
Alternate courted weal and harm. 

Divers and strange the ways he trod, 

Now seemed, a Satyr, now a God. 

He gazed on nature with the look 

The lover on his idol flings, 
And woman's heart he made a book, 

Wherein unutterable things 
Of heaven and earth by turns he read, 
As prudence or as passion led. 

Zig-zaging thus from flower to thorn, 
From thorn to flower he wildly sprung, 

Now met his prayer the golden morn, 
Now on a wanton's smile he hung ; 

Anon his eyes well bitter tears, 

For broken peace and squander'd years. 

One morn, an ano-el clad in light. 
Met him upon his devious way, 

4 



50 EULALIE. 

Took pity on his mournful plight, 

And cleared from clouds his mental ray ; 
Then pointing heavenward said " Beware ! 
Uplift thine eyes, thy home is there ! " 

And now with humble heart and mien. 
And chastened spirit, journeying on. 

He walks a stranger 'mid the scene, 

Where once with meteor flash he shone ; 

And ever and anon with prayer, 

He looks to heaven, for she is there. 

And still upon his evening path, 

A light is shining half divine, 
For in his spirit's depth he hath 

Upraised a pure and sacred shrine, 
And that adored one, who was she ? 
His guardian angel, Eulalie. 



SONG. 

How pleasant, in our highland home, 

When early flowers were springing 
Among the birchen bowers to roam, 

And list the linnet singing; 
The moorland dells, where heather bells, 

And fox-gloves fair were blooming, 
And mountain thyme, all in its prime, 

The balmy air perfuming. 

Around our childhood's happy home 

A wimpling stream went chiding ; 
Now glassy calm, now white with foam, 

Now 'neath green hazels hiding; 
That streamlet fair, those woodlands rare, 

Methinks I yet behold them ; 
And to my breast, those wild flowers blest, 

In fancy I enfold them. 

In slumber, thus, we oft recall 

Some long departed sorrow, 
Till fancied woes, in tears that fall, 

Fly at the voice of morrow. 



52 SONG. 



Thus mem'ry dwells on fond farewells, 
When years come softly stealing, 

Till Faith's bright ray breaks on our way, 
The bliss of heaven revealing. 



A WELCOME TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 

Oh the queer auld man, the dear auld man, 

The drollest in Christendie, 
Wha sae aft has beguil'd doure care till he 
smil'd ; 

He's comin' his kinsfolk to see! 

He's comin' to daud frae his bonnet a blink 

The stoure o' classic ha's ; 
He's hung up his goun i' the gude auld 
toun, 

An' brunt his critic's taws. 

CHORUS. 

He's a dear auld man, he's a queer auld 

man, 
He's a leal auld man, he's a hale auld man, 
Frae the Aristook to the Raritan 
Ye'll no find the fier o' our spree auld 

man. 

But his pike-staff o' aik, whilk mony a paik 

Has rung on timmer crouns, 
An' his birken crutch, ye'll find few such 

For soberin' senseless loons. 
Thae switches Strang — the short an' the 
lang, 

The pawkie auld carle brings, 



54 A WELCOME TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 

An' wae to the pate o' the . blether-skate, 
On whilk their vengeance rings. 

He's a bauld auld man, he's a yauld auld 

man, 
He's a free auld man, he's a slee auld man, 
An' there's no a lady in a' the Ian' 
Wi' a blythesomer e'e than our braw auld 

man. 

But a kindly wit has Scotland's Kit, 

As kind a heart an' smile, 
An' the wierd words flung, frae his witching 
tongue, 

The gled frae the lift wad wile. 
For a' kind o' lear, His presence be here ! 

An' a' kinds o' knowledge has he, 
Baith Latin an' Greek he as glibly can speak, 

As ye wad the A, B, C. 

He's a grave auld man, he's a brave auld 

man, 
He's a frank auld man, he's a swank auld 

man, 
At fleechin' or preachin' or cioorin' a 

pan, 
There's nae peer to our North Com i tree 

auld man. 



A WELCOME TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 55 

Sae lads to your shanks, an' thegither in 
ranks, 

Let's welcome gude Kit to our shore. 
In our costliest braws — wi' our loudest hur- 
rahs, 

Till the wondering welkin roar; 
For kings are but caff, an' warld's gear draft', 

Eugulph'd by the tide o' Time, 
But the heaven-born mind, loving a' mankind, 

Till doomsday shall tower sublime. 



He's a srand auld man, he's a bland auld 

man, 
He's a yare auld man, he's a rare auld 

man, 
Tho' the terror o' sumph an' o' charlatan, 
He's a kind-hearted debonair auld man. 



"AH! NA, JOHNNIE, NA." 

Ah ! na, Johnny, na, though ye're bonny, 
young, an' braw, 
I canna lea' my puir auld mither pining 
a' alane 
In her lowly theekit beild i' the gloamin* grey 
o' eild, 
Wi' nane to help an' nane to heed her 
mane. 

Ah ! na, Johnny, na, I wot ye never saw, 
A cruel dochter mak' a kindly marrow to a 
man, 
Nor the ruthless bairn that wrings a parent's 
bosom strings, 
But fell beneath misfortune's bitter ban. 

Ah ! na, Johnny, na, when Liking gies the law 
Puir Duty aft maun jink an' jee an' hide her 
head awhile, 
But a blessing ay maun be on the bairn frae 
on hie, 
Wha seeks a mither's sorrows to beguile. 



"Aff! NA, JOHNNY, NA." 57 

Ah ! na, Johnny, na, 'twould break my heart 
in twa, 
Should ony winsome lassie wile awa' your 
love frae me, 
But laddie dinna blame that I canna lea' my 
hame, 
Or frail auld widow'd minny love for thee. 

Ah ! na, Johnny, na, the true love atween us 
twa, 
Will like a rose tree blossom on for mony 
a happy year, 
An' ilk comin' spring will find its tendrils 
closer twin'd, 
An' nearer to ilk ither and inair dear. 



RICHARD CGEUll DE LTON. 

Brightly, brightly the moonbeam shines 

On the castle turret wall ; 
Darkly, darkly the spirit pines, 

Deep, deep in its dungeon's thrall. 
He hears the screech-owl whoop reply 

To the warder's drowsy strain, 
And thinks of home, and heaves a sigh 

For his own bleak hills again. 

Sweetly, sweetly the spring-flowers spread, 

When first he was fettered there ; 
Slowly, slowly the sere leaves fade, 

Yet breathes he that dungeon's air. 
All lowly lies his banner bright, 

That foremost in battle streamed, 
And dim is the sword that in the fight 

Like midnight meteor beamed. 

But place his foot upon the plain, 

That banner o'er his head, 
His good lance in his hand again, 

With Paynini slaughter red, 



RICHARD C(EUR DE LION. 59 

The craven hearts that round him now 

With coward triumph stand, 
Would quail before that dauntless brow, 

And the death-flash of that brand. 



THE ISLAND QUEEN. 

How sternly beautiful art thou, 

Romantic northern land ; 
Whose lofty cloud-encompassed brow, 

And look of high command, 
Bespeak thee wont to have thy will, — 

To wake or bid the world be still. 

Amidst the surging ocean throned, 

That laves thy queenly feet, 
And round by girdling mountains zoned, 

Thou tak'st thv regal seat, 
The sovereign lady of the sea, 

Hope of the brave — home of the free. 

I've seen the Summer coronal 
Thy princely robe with flowers, 

And Autumn gather sweets from all 
The upland dingle bowers, 

And breathe around thee, the perfumes 
Of all his fairest mountain blooms. 

But when hoar Winter round thy brow 
His white tiara bound, 



THE ISLAND QUEEN. 61 

And like a spotless vestal thou, 

In dazzling beauty crowned, 
Sat pinnacled in grandeur there, 

What sight on earth so calm, so fair ! 

Now o'er thy vales the virgin Spring, 
Her joyous smile hath thrown ; 

And from thy woods love-warblings ring- 
In many a varied tone ; 

And lambs upon the green sward leap, 
And herds are lowing on each steep. 

And all is fair and free from thrall, 

Where despot none is found ; 
For shackles from the captive fall, 

Who touches English ground ; 
And by each rude and gentle tongue 

Upon the earth, thy praise is sung. 

Hast thou not to the nations been 

A hope-inspiring star? 
When tyrants made the world a scene 

Of carnage, waste, and war, 
Till forth thy serried legions thronged, 

To spoil the spoiler — right the wronged. 

But calmly thou'rt reposing now 

Like a lion in his lair, 
And peace hath charmed from thy brow 



62 TEE ISLAND QUEEN. 

The tempest cloud of care ; 
But woe to him would wake thy ire — 
'Twere better rouse old Etna's fire. 

All lovely art thou, ocean queen, 

Most beautiful and free; 
And where on this terrestrial scene, 

Is aught may vie with thee ? 
For on thy consecrated sod, 

Hath Freedom chosen her abode. 

And long to her may incense rise, 

From city, cot, and wold, 
Until the moon in dotage dies, 

The sun grows dim and cold ; 
Then be the dirge of nature sung, 

And heaven's last trumpet-summons run^ 



A MOURNER'S DREAM. 

Yestreen at midnight hour I crept 

Forlorn to my lonely bed, 
For the carking cares of this weary world, 

Lay on my heart like lead. 

And on my pillow bitter tears 

Of sorrow fell like rain, 
Till balmy slumber kindly stole 

The poison sting of pain. 

And then methought my buried love, 

With brow of blissful calm, 
Came softly in, as she was wont, 

At hour of evening psalm. 

And down beside my couch she sat, 

As if to list my moan, 
While close I held my breath to drink 

Her words' celestial tone. 

O, Willie, wherefore weep ye sae, 

And wherefore do ye pine ? 
And is the sacred lore forgot, 

Ye taught to me lang syne? 



64 A MOURNERS DREAM. 

Leave sordid cares to sordid souls, 

The earth to earthly men, 
And lift thy open brow to heaven, 

With faith and hope again. 

And God on high shall be thy guide, 

His angel host thy guard, 
And earth shall turn to heaven, and heaven 

At last be thy reward. 

Keep hands unsullied, heart unstained, 

Nor mammon worship more, 
And I shall meet thee, Willie dear, 

On yon immortal shore. 



"IT IS WELL." 

2 Kings iv. 26. 

£t is well with the soul of the righteous, well 
Though the seas of adversity over him swell ; 
For He who is mighty will ever be near, 
To comfort his saints amid sorrow and fear. 

It is well, though the idols in whom thou 

didst trust 
Should be shiver'd before thee and trampled 

in dust: 
Believer, in love from thy grasp they were 

riven, 
That thy hopes might be anchor'd alone upon 

heaven. 

It is well — it is well — all is well, still with 

thee, 
Though thy gourds of enjoyment blasted 

should be ; 
Bless the hand that bereaves, 'tis a Father's 

own hand, 

And beckons thy thoughts to a lovelier land. 
5 



6G "IT IS WELL." ' 

And when 'neath the cold wizard touch of 

decay, 
The nearest and dearest of friends fade away 
Like autumn's sere honors, when strew'd on 

the gale, 
Even then be the words of thy soul, "It is 

well ! " 

When the combat is o'er and the race is 

run, 
And the bright goal of glory almost won, 
O Saint, may thy spirit, triumphant in faith, 
Exclaim, " It is well ! " in the valley of death. 

And when the veil rends that no longer shall 

sever 
Thy soul from the joys of Jehovah forever, 
May the last faint sounds on thy pale lips 

that swell, 
Be whisper'd in rapture, " It is well ! It is 

well ! " 



THE FAITHLESS. 

We part, — yet wherefore should I weep, 

From faithless thing like thee to sever ? 
Or let one tear mine eyelids steep, 

While thus I cast thee off forever ? 
I loved thee — need I say how well ? 

Few, few have ever loved so dearly ; 
As many a sleepless hour can tell, 

And many a vow breath'd too sincerely. 

But late beneath its jetty lash, 

I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendor, 
Which wont all witchingly to flash 

On me its light, so soft and tender; 
Now, from that glance I turn away, 

As if its thrilling gaze could wound me : 
Though not, as once, in love's young day, 

When thoughtless passion's fetters bound 
me. 

The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught — 
The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving ; 

Who, that had seen them, could have thought 
That things so fair could be deceiving ? 



68 THE FAITHLESS. 

The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind, 
In all their fitful moods of changing, 

Are nought to wavering woman's mind, 
Forever shifting, ever rangino- ! 

Farewell ! I'd rather launch my bark 

Upon the angry ocean billow, 
'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark, 

Than make thy faithless breast my pillow. 
Thy broken vow now cannot bind ; 

Thy streaming tears no more can move 
me ; 
And thus I turn from thee, to find 

A heart that may more truly love me. 



EPISTLE TO LIZZY LEE. 

Where Hudson deep, majestic, wide, 
Pours to the sea his monarch tide, 
And mountains mirror'd in their pride 

0' simmer sheen, 
A cozy cot may be descried 

'Mid maples green. 

The settin' sun is sweetly glantin' 
His gowden glories down the plantin', 
While loud the mellow robin 's chantin' 

His melodie, 
And on the croft the bairns are rantin' 

Wi' mickle glee. 

The sheep are nibblin' on the swaird, 
The ky are routing i' the yard, 
The naigs wi' e'ening corn are car'd, 

An' i' the pen 
The ca's ha'e low'd till echo rair'd 

Lowino-s again. 



*r»* 



Beneath the honeysuckle's screen, 
Gazing upon the gladsome scene, 



70 EPISTLE TO LIZZY LEE. 

My modest, comely, gentle Jean, 

Wi' bairn on knee, 
Sits smilin' like some shepherd queen 

0' Arcadie. 

And Arcadie it is I trew 

To me whose hopes and aims are few, 

Where unpolluted joys I pu' 

Fresh frae love's tree, 
Which bears young blossoms fair and new 

For ay to me. 

And certes tho' my day is dreigh, 
And fortune still looks sour an' skeigh, 
Baith head and heart I'll still baud high, 

An' cock my bonnet, 
Though brainless, purse-proud coofs cry 
" feigh," 

I'll pen a sonnet. 

Let saints look shy, and sages sharp ; 
Let prudes cry " fye ! " and critics carp, 
I'll wake ance mair my Norlan' harp, 

An' think nae crime 
To weave the measure, woof an' warp, 

In Doric rhyme. 

'Tis true I never can aspire 

To Jamie's bauld Promethean fire, 



EPISTLE TO LIZZY LEE. 71 

Or glorious Walter's lofty lyre, 

Or Robbie's strain, 
The chief an' king o' a' the choir 

0' mortal men. 

But yet in artless rustic sang 

O' scenes dear Scotia's vales amang, 

When simmer a 'her sweetness flanof 

O'er hill an' plain, 
A simple minstrel thinks nae wrang 

To lilt a strain. 

And ablins to his muirland lays, 

Will gentle L gie meed o' praise, 

Nae hollow, courtly, sugar'd praise, 

0' commendation, 
But kind encomium, meet to raise 

Self-approbation. 

And haply when he's no ower thrang, 
He'll sing to her some rustic sang, 
Sometimes o' joy, sometimes o' Strang, 

Heart-riving sorrow. 
Sic as the breast o' Mary wrang, 

By flowery Yarrow. 

'Twad pleasure her I weel opine 
To list the lays o' auld lang syne, 



72 EPISTLE TO LIZZY LEE. 

Strain after strain, line after line, 
Wi' transport filling; 

A pensive sadness half divine 
The bosom thrillin'. 

Men worship wealth, and sigh for rank. 
As if their heav'n were in a bank, 
And when by mony a wily prank, 

Wi' gear they're gorged, 
'Tis but to hear the fetters clank 

Themselves hae forg'd. 

But tent me winsome Lizzy Lee, 
Could wealth ay fa' to sic as thee, 
Unspoil'd by greatness and degree, 

By purse unprided : 
E'en God's puir bodies wad agree 

'Twas weel divided. 

Oh leeze me on the open heart ! 
Unchill'd by greed, unstain'd by art, 
Unkent on fashion's giddy mart: 

By rank unscared, 
Scorning to play a fawning part 

To king or laird. 

And should we meet — and meet we shall 
In spite o' bondage and o' thrall — 



EPISTLE TO LIZZY LEE. 73 

A voice shall echo in her hall 

To some auld ditty, 
And if on tentless ears it fall, 

The m air's the pity. 

How soothing is this solitude, 
Where nature, in her wildest mood 
Of richly cultur'd quietude 

And beauty, reigns, 
And gentle L , the lov'd, the good, 

The soul enchains. 

The greenwood glade, the sylvan bower, 
The garden grac'd with many a flower, 
The wild birds' song at gloaming hour 

In melting strain, 
These all are gentle Lizzy's dower, — 

This her domain. 

What is there in the grand saloon 
Amid the dinsome stoory toun, 
To keep the weary heart in tune ? 

Which like a dove, 
Pines through the leafy groves o' June, 

At will to rove. 

O what has wealth or what has lare 
To heal the canker wounds o' care, 



74 EPISTLE TO LIZZY LEE. 

Or soothe the. heart wi' sorrow sair 
When, tempest-driven, 

The bloodshot e'e o' wild despair 
It lifts to Heaven ? 

Wha spurns distrust an' loathes disguise 
An' ilka will that knav'ry tries, 
That is the heart o' hearts to prize ; 

An' where 'tis given, 
Nae greater blessing to the wise 

Can come frae Heaven. 

Then wi' a sordid miser's care 

That friendship in my heart I'll bear ; 

A glowing jewel — priceless — rare — 

Of worth untold, 
That deeply shall be treasur'd there 

Like hidden gold. 

Farewell; for while this strain I'm weavin, 

The sober russet plaid o' even 

Has thrown athort the azure heaven 

Its darksome cover ; 
But gay or gloomy, glad or grievin', 

I'm thine forever. 



NIGHT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 

The heavens are cloudless, 

The winds are asleep, 
And there is not a breath 

On the face of the deep, 
Save the drowsy sound 

Of the fisherman's oar, 
As he heavily nears 

His boat to the shore. 

The shepherd's blithe whistle 

Hath ceas'd on the hill, 
The watch-dog is mute, 

And the forest is still ; 
And the silence of ocean, 

Of earth and of sky, 
Is soft as the slumber 

Of innocency. 

Now the weary fisher 

Hath moor'd his light skiff; 
The sea-bird hath gone 

To his place in the cliff; 



76 NIGHT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 

And the aspect of nature 
Seems silent and dead, 

As man's mortal part 

When the spirit hath fled. 

The young autumn moon 

Looks abroad on the scene, 
Unclouded, untroubled. 

Tranquil and serene ; 
And walks the blue azure, 

As lovely and fair 
As if the dark tempest 

Had never been there. 

It is thus with man 

In prosperity's hour ; 
He plucks the gay blossom 

From pleasure's fair flower ; 
And his eye beams as bright, 

As joyous and clear, 
As if it had never 

Been dimmed with a tear. 

When the moonlit heavens 
Their glories unfold, 

Like a "beautiful garment 
Bedropped with gold ; 

And lake, and river, 
And ocean waves' hue, 



NiGHT ON THE SEASHORE. 77 

Are all of the deepest 
Cerulean blue. 

'Tis in the softness 

Of such a calm hour, 
That earthly passions 

Relinquish their power. 
Then soars the glad soul 

All unfettered and free, 
Through the boundless space 

Of immensity. 

Then seemeth the earth, 

With its joys and fears, 
Like some faded dream 

Of our boyhood years ; 
And the bliss that we taste 

In such moments of thought 
Breathes peace to the soul, 

And is never forgot. 



THE HUSBAND'S SONG. 

Wha my kettle now will boil, 
Wha will cheer me wi' her smile, 
Wha will lichten a' my toil, 
When thou art far awa' ? 

Wha will meet me on the stair, 
Wha will kiss me kindly there, 
And lull to rest ilk earthly care, 
When thou art far awa'? 

When the day is at a close, 
Wha will mak my wee drap brose, 
Snodly mend my holey hose, 
When thou art far awa' ? 

Wha will wi' my failings bear, 
Wha my e'enin' psalm will share, 
Wha will wi' me kneel in prayer, 
When thou art far awa' ? 

When the nights grow lang and cauld, 
And the wind blaws snell and bauld, 
Wha her arms around me fauld, 
When thou art far awa'? 



THE HUSBAND'S SONG. 79 

Wha will trigly mak' my bed, 
Draw my nichtcap on my head, 
And kiss me when I down am laid, 
When thon art far awa' ? 

Nane ! and dowie now I gang, 
Through the house the hale nicht lang, 
Croonin' ower some simple sang 
0' her that's far awa' ! 

Now I downa bide to leuk 
Ayont the cheerless ingle neuk, 
Where oft I read the Holy Beuk 
To her that's far awa' ! 

Haste, my dearest ! haste ye hame ; 
Come, my ain beloved dame ! 
Ferry ower loch, sea, and stream. 
And ne'er gae mair awa' ! 



CONFESSION. 

" Who can forgive sins, but God only V »> 

Nay, holy father, come not near, 

The secret of my soul to hear, 

For not to mortal ear I tell 

The thoughts that in this bosom swell, — 

The hopes, the wishes, wild and vain, 

Which wander through this burning brain. 

Frail fellow-being, why should I 

Before thee kneel imploringly? 

'Twere worse than madness to believe 

Man can his brother-worm forgive, 

Or yield unto the contrite one 

That peace which comes from Heaven alone. 

No — let me spend this blessed hour 

Communing with a higher power. 

The world shut out, I'll lowly bend 

To my Almighty Father, Friend: 

To Him for mercy I'll appeal — 

To Him my inmost soul reveal. 

He knows the heart that He has made, 

By each alternate passion swayed; 

And can forgive it, for He knows 

Its wants, its weakness, and its woes. 



CONFESSION. 81 

By His protecting pardon blest, 
How sweetly might I sink to rest, 
And sleep His sheltering wing beneath, 
Though 'twere the last dark sleep of death. 



MARIAN'S GRAVE. 

We saw decay's pale, hectic streak 
A moment flush her faded cheek; 
And heard the sounds of farewell quiver 
Upon her lip, now mute forever. 

And for a space her sunken eye 
Seem'd lighted with a brilliancy 
Of sunshine from the soul imparted, 
So bright a look of love it darted. 

! that so sweet, so fair a form 
Should feed the loathsome church-yard worm ; 
'Mid crumbling bones and clammy clay, 
The stern memorials of decay. 

No! she should not be shrouded there, 
So pure, so gentle, young, and fair, 
Nor hireling's vulgar fingers stain 
Her coffin, with their touch profane. 

Far down the green dell's woody glade, 
Deep, deep beneath the elm-tree's shade, 

With wild flowers springing o'er her breast, 

There she should have her place of resf. 



MAR TAN'S GRAVE. 83 

No choristers beside her grave 
Should chant their dull funereal stave ; 
Nor sculptured marble rise to show 
The sleeper's name that rests below. 

But there the thrush, at vesper hour, 
His mellow hymn of love would pour; 
The red-breast too, in autumn day, 
Would warble there his roundelay. 

There Spring would spread her gayest green, 
And nightly, 'mid the sylvan scene, 
Kind fairy elves, with many a flower 
Begemm'd with dew, would deck that bower. 

And all forgetful of her care, 
In silence she would slumber there, 
Nor e'er again heart-broken grieve 
That man should woman so deceive. 



DIRGE. 

Charlie, darling little Charlie, 
Much beloved but blighted early ; 
Blinding tears our grief are telling, 
As we can scan thy narrow dwelling. 

Household echoes, lately ringing 
To the gladness of thy singing, 
Now are silent — or awaken 
To the wail of hearts forsaken. 

While the budding woods were growing, 
Daffodils and pansies blowing, 
Song-birds to their haunts returning, 
Thou hast gone and left us mourning ! 

Mourning for our cherished treasure, 
Mourning for our vanished pleasure, 
Mourning for the broken story 
Of its brief terrestrial glory. 

To thee baby hearts were clinging, 
Now with wordless sorrow wrinodno- ; 
He recall'd thee home who gave thee : 
Night was come, and death would have thee. 



DIRGE. 85 

So we leave thee here in slumber 
Which no earthly pain can cumber, 
Till the trump of God awake thee, 
Home to Christ in bliss to take thee. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF LIFE. 

" To Avhom can we go, but unto thee ? Thou hast the 
vords of eternal life." — Matt. xiv. 6. 

But unto Thee — but unto Thee, 
To whom can man in trouble flee? 
To whom his malady make known, 
O living God ! but Thee alone ? 

Thou the alone Physician art, 
Canst heal the sorrow-broken heart ; 
Subdue the wounded spirit's pain, 
And bid it bound with joy again. 

The troubled springs to which, at first, 
We blindly stoop'd to slake our thirst, 
Hath dried up like a summer rill, 
And left us faint and thirsting still. 



When storms are low'ring o'er our head, 
And every earthly stay is fled, 
To whom for refuge can we flee, 
living God ! but unto Thee ? 



THE FOUNTAIN OF LIFE. 8 

No health earth's turbid streams contain : 
Who drinks from them must thirst again; 
But he who quaffs life's limpid river, 
No more shall thirst again forever ? 



THE LILY O' GLENLYON. 

Sweet is the e'ening's tear o' dew 
Upon the bending harebell blue, 
But sweeter far is she I lo'e, — 
The Lily o' Glenlyon. 

I've kissed wi' mony a Highland quean, 
Wi' Lowland maids danc'd on the green, 
But nane like her I kiss'd yestreen, — 
The Lily o' Glenlyon. 

O, thou art sweet as e'ening's gale 
That whispers down the blossom'd dale, 
An' soft as lover's wooing tale, — 
Sweet Lily o' Glenlyon. 

I've seen the rose in lordly bower, 
The violet bloom by ruined tower, 
But thou art beauty's peerless flower, — 
Sweet Lily o' Glenlyon. 

Nae gems thy gouden ringlets braid, 
Thy brawest veil's the tartan plaid, 
My Highland love, my mountain maid, 
My Lily o' Glenlyon. 



THE LILY 0' GLENLYON. 89 

Thy rosy cheek, thy deep-blue e'e, 
That shot sic deadly glaumerie, 
Hath bound my heart for aye to thee, 
Sweet Lily o' Glenlyon. 



ST. MARYS WELL. 

The blithest e'e I ever saw 
Was her e'e o' heavenly blue, 

The sweetest kiss I ever staw 
Was a kiss o' her hinny moue. 

We met when gloamin's dewy tear 

Upon the wild flower fell, 
We parted when the morning clear 

Shone on St. Mary's Well. 

Nae vulgar love was ours, I trew, 

At that calm blessed hour, 
For the pearly drap o' siller dew 

Ne'er was more chastely pure. 

We gazed upo' the stars aboon 
That danc'd to the waverin' sicht, 

An' blessed the bonny simmer moon 
Wi' her cloudless mellow licht. 

We swore nae aith, we pledg'd nae vow 

To be to ither kind, 
For honest sauls will aye be true, 

Without an aith to bind. 



ST. MARTS WELL. 91 

I'll aye gang to St. Mary's Well, 
By the green wood leafy shaw, 

To meet the maid o' Annandale, 
That wil'd my heart awa\ 



JEAN LINN. 

haud na your noddle sae hie, my doo, 
O haud na your noddle sae hie ; 

The clays that hae been may be yet again 
seen, 
Sae look na sae lightly on me, my doo. 

geek na at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn, 
O geek na at hame hodden gray ; 

Your crutcher and mine wad hae thocht them- 
selves fine 
In cleedin sae bein, bonny May. 

Ye mind when we won in Whin glen, Jean 
Linn ? 
Ye mind when we won in Whin glen ; 
Your daddy, douce carle, was cottar to mine, 
And our herd was your bonny sell, then, 
Jean Linn. 

then you were a' thing to me, Jean Linn, 
then you were a' thing to me ; 



JEAN LINN. 93 

An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through 
the sky, 
When tenting the owsen wi' thee, Jean 
Linn. 

I twin'd you a bower by the burn, Jean 
Linn, 
I twin'd you a bower by the burn ; 
But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in the 
bower. 
That fortune would take such a turn, Jean 
Linn. 

You busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn, 
You busk noo in satins fu' braw ; 

Your daddie's a laird, mine's i' the kirk yard, 
And I'm your puir ploughman, Jock Law, 
Jean Linn. 



SONG. 

Old England, warlike England, 

Thy lion wakes again ! 
His roar through sunny Ind resounds 

As once it pealed in Spain. 
In soul-arousing notes it rings, 

Through Cathay's distant clime, 
And a wail 
On the gale 

Is blent with battle's hymn, 
While the craven herds amaz'd behold 

Triumph unstained by crime. 

Old England, dauntless England, 

Thy conq'ring legions come ! 
The Clansmen's gathering pibroch blends 

With trumpet and with drum. 
Bold Erin's battle-cry bursts forth, 

As on the dusky bands 
With a cheer 
They career, 

And the traitors bite the sands, 
Or like the chaff by rushing winds, 

Are scattered through the lands. 



SONG. 95 

Old England, noble England ! 

Thy hand ne'er drew the glaive 
But from his foes to free the wronged, 

His fetters from the slave ; 
Yet ever gen'rous in thy strength 

To spare a fallen foe, 
No stain 
Can remain 

On thy scutcheon's spotless snow, 
Who strong in might upholds the right 

And strikes the spoiler low. 

Old England, glorious England ! 

On this terrestrial sphere 
For truth and worth and majesty 

Where yet was found thy peer? 
Thou t reader down of tyranny, 

Thou tamer of the strong, 
Land and main 
Own thy reign, 

And round thy footstool throng, 
While wond'ring nations worship thee, 

Thou Queen of sword and song. 



SONG FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE 
BIRTHDAY OF BURNS. 

Tune — " Go to Berwick. Johnnie.'''' 

Blessing on the day that brings us a' thegither, 
To drink in Usquebae the land o' kilts an' 

heather ; 
An' blessing on the night set Scotia's heart a 

throbbin', 
As wi' supreme delight she welcom'd winsome 

Robin. 

Then its warlike head her thistle liftit proudly, 

While strains might wake the dead her bag- 
pipes liltit loudly : 

Then by loch an' lea, then ower muir an' 
cairn, 

Fairy minstrelsy sung welcome to the bairn. 

A' the world ower has heard his wild harp 
ringing, 

Hearts on ilka shore ha'e kindl'd wi' its sing- 
ing* 

Through the lordly ha', i' the reeky sheeling, 

To the hearts o' a' Robie's sangs gae stealing. 



BIRTHDAY OF BURNS. 97 

Ilka bosom here at that lov'd name is throb- 
bin'; 

Here's to Scotia dear, an' Scotia's darlin' 
Robin ; 

Here's to Hieland hame and Hieland hills sae 
hoary, 

An' here's to him whose fame made brighter 
Scotia's glory. 

Kindly 'tis and meet thus yearly to forgather, 
We whose favor'd feet ha'e trod the muirland 

heather ; 
Paidl't in the streams frae Scotia's mountains 

rowin' ; 
Heard her pibrochs scream and pu'd her bonny 



Blessing on the land that mither-like receiv'd 

us, 
Took us by the hand and brither-like believ'd 

us ; 
Long as ocean laves and ocean breezes fan 

her, 
Still o'er ocean waves exalt the starry banner. 

While we've truth and worth, manly faith an' 

honor, 
Let our hearts send forth their benison upon 

her; 

7 



98 BIRTHDAY OF BURNS. 

By our thistle dour, by our mossy cairns, 
Nought maun stain or cloor the faith o' Scotia's 
bairns. 

Sae up wi' hodden grey, up wi' plaid and bon- 
net ; 
Native hame for aye, and blessing be upon it. 



WORK IS PRAYER. 

Laborare est orare. 
GRANT us faith to work, and hope to win. 
When jocund youthhood's morning sun is 
shining, 
' Tis time the work of warfare to begin, — 
The Christian soldier's warfare waged with 
sin. 

Laborare est orare. 
Father, let our toil seem ever sweet ! 
When duty bids us still the task be plying ; 
The task that brings us daily to Thy feet, 
To catch new glimpses of Thy mercy-seat. 

Laborare est orare. 
Though stern the harvest toil, the day's work 
long, 
With thankful hearts our scanty sheaves we'll 
gather ; 
And strong in confidence, in trusting strong, 
Still with our tears will mingle bursts of 
song. 



100 WORK IS PRAYER. 

Labor are est or are. 
We soon must lay our earthly armor down : 
And in the heavenly land are legions waiting, 
To raise the choral welcome of renown, 
And crown us with an everlasting crown. 



AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM. 

Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny 
Graham ? 

The carle sae pawkie an' slee ; 
He wants a bit wifie to tent his bien hame, 

An' the body has ettled at me. 

Wi' bonnet sae vaunty an' owerlay sae clean. 
An' ribbon that wav'd boon his bree, 

He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' 
yestreen, 
An' rappit, and speer'd aye for me. 

I bade him come ben whare my minnie, sae 
thrang, 

Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie ; 
An' foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang 

Ere he tauld out his errand to me. 

" Hech, Tibby lass ! a' yon braid acres o' land. 

Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie, 
An' muckle mair gear shall be at your com- 
mand, 

Gin ye will look kindly on me. 



102 AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM. 

'" Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen, 
Thae naigies that nibble the lea, 

The kye i' the sheugh, .an' the sheep i' the pen, 
I'll gie a', dear Tibby, to thee. 

"Nae carkin' or toilin' shall e'er to ye fa', 
Gin ye will but buckle with me ; 

Wi' plenty in kitchen and plenty in ha', 
Our ingle a heaven shall be. 

" I'll hap ye an' fend ye, and busk ye and 
tend ye, 
As couthy as couthy can be ; 
I'll comfort an' cheer ye, an' daut ye and 
dear ye, 
An' mak' ye the licht of my e'e. 

" An', lassie, I 've goupins o' gowd in a stockin', 
Wi' pearlins wad dazzle your e'e ; 

A mettl'd but canny young yaud for the yokin', 
When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me. 

" I've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit 
bairn, 

Ye ran ilka day to meet me, 
An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern, 

Wi' meikle glad daffin and glee. 

" An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu' an' fair, 
An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be, 



AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM. 103 

Will ye tak' an auld carle, who ne'er had a 
care 
For woman, dear Tibby, but thee ? " 

Sae, Aunty, ye see, I am a' in a swither 

What answer the body to o-i'e ; 
But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither, 

An' let puir young Tibby abee. 



A FIRESIDE SCENE 

When the sunbeams o' fortune upon us are 
sportin' 

We've plenty o' frien's then to daut us ; 
But when siller is gane we sit down alane 

O'er a wee pickle saut an' potatoes. 

The case was just sae, wi' my mither an' me, 
Sae down at the fireside we sat us ; 

An' my auld mither sicht, as we sat at mid- 
nicht 
O'er a wee pickle saut an' potatoes. 

" Come, mither," I cried, " lat you sorrows be 
dried ; 
I'm sure it would unco ill set us 
To sit here an' gloom, cause our aumry is 
toom, 
O'er a wee pickle saut an' potatoes." 

THE GRACE. 

" Thou Being all good, who hath sent us this 
food, 
Thou who at the first did create us, 



A FIRESIDE SCENE. 105 

In goodness now shine, and in mercy divine, 
Bless our wee pickle saut an' potatoes. 

"Tho' want we've endur'd, yet still we're as- 
sured 
That Thou wilt not always forget us ; 
When siller is scant, Thou wilt bless to the 
saunt 
His wee pickle saut an' potatoes. 

" Now, Lord ! we entreat, mak' us patient and 
meet 
For the joys and the woes that await us ; 
Where Thy blessing is sent, lat us aye be con- 
tent 
Wi' a wee pickle saut an' potatoes." 

CONCLUSION". 

" Come, rnither, begin, to repine would be sin, 

Tho' little we ha'e to elate us, 
Save light hearts an' leal, that sma' pock o' 
meal, 

An' this wee pickle saut an' potatoes. 

" Let the wealthy deride i' the pomp o' their 
pride. 

An' grandeur's gay minions sneer at us ; 
Tho' we may look waur, we 're happier far 

Wi' our wee pickle saut an' potatoes. 



106 i FIRESIDE SCENE. 

"An' when we are laid in our cauld clayey bed, 
The just an' the gude will regret us ; 

Then let's ne'er despair, altho' our best fare 
Be a wee pickle saut an' potatoes." 



THOU ART FAR AWAY. 

Thou art far away, 
Thou art far away ; 
But thy image imprest on my soul is so blest 
And lovely, it ne'er can decay- 

I think on thy soft, tearful smile, 

At parting so tenderly given, 
And the lingering look then wistfully took, 

That thrilled like the lightning of heaven. 

I gazed on the bright summer morn, 
That looked from her home in the sky, 

And pensively said in my fondness of soul, 
Perchance she now meets thy mild eye. 

Thou knowest my passion, how pure, 

By many a kind token proved, 
But ne'er till this heart-broken hour did I 
dream 

How fondly and deeply I loved. 

When seated by those we adore, 
The bosom may ecstasy own ; 



108 THOU ART FAR AWAY. 

But the depth of affection we never can know, 
Until the beloved is gone. 

, Thou art far away, 
Thou art far away ; 
But thy image imprest on my soul is so blest 
And lovely, it ne'er can decay. 



CHURCH-YARD THOUGHTS. 

How soundly sleep the dead 
In the chambers of their rest ! 

Every waking dream is fled, 

Every care that heaved the breast, 
All is hushed and they are blest. 

How soundly sleep the dead! 
The beloved heart is cold ; 

And the cheek where beauty played 
Is enveloped in the hold 
Of the shroud's enwrapping fold. 

How soundly sleep the dead ! 

Beauty's ruby lip is blanched, 
And the glance that lightnings shed 

The dark charnel-damps hath drenched. 

And its light forever quenched. 

How soundly sleep the dead ! 
The young lover's whispered tale 

Hath died, as down the glade 
Dies the murmur of the gale — 
0, his manly cheek, how pale ! 



110 CHURCH-YARD THOUGHTS. 

How soundly sleep the dead ! 
Even hushed the infant's cries : 

Now the earth's its cradle bed, 
Which the night wind lullabies : 
And how still the baby lies. 

How soundly sleep the dead ! 
Statesman, soldier, sage, and bard, 

All, like broken harps, are laid 
'Neath the silent dewy sward — 
Proud ambition's sole reward. 

Yes, soundly sleep the dead! 

But a shout shall rend the skies, 

That will rouse them from their bed, 
And bid each sleeper rise, 
To attend Heaven's dread assize. 



SCHAMYL. 

[In the beginning of 1840 the Circassians, led by their gal- 
lant native chief, Schamyl, with great slaughter defeated the 
Eussians, commanded by General Godovin, and destroyed all 
their new forts ; since which time the hordes of the Czar have 
never set foot among the mountain fastnesses of Circassia.] 

Hear ye the hurricane sounds that come 

From far-off mountain lands, 
Where legions marshal to bugle and drum, 

And bondsmen bare their brands? 
Their fetters and fears to the winds they have 

given ; 
Their country, their homes, and their cause to 
Heaven ! 

Like the desolating locust cloud, 

The spoilers blight the plains, 
And the blaze of freedom's sun they shroud 

With carnage, blood, and chains ; 
Like the rush of the mountain cataract, 
The patriot warriors shall bear them back. 

How manhood spurns at the name of slave. 
When roused from slavery's dream ! 

How nerved the arm that wields each glaive, 
With vengeance in its gleam, 



112 SCHAMYL. 

While thickly the Autocrat's savage hordes 
Are sinking beneath their chivalrous swords ! 

The deep-voiced winds with freedom roam, 

The waves with freedom roar, 
As mountain-like they, crested, foam 

To the quaking cliff-bound shore ; 
And the warrior land, late an ice-bound sea, 
Hath mustered the might of its wrath — and 
is free ! 



STANZAS TO A CHILD. 

Strange that this breathless, lifeless thing 
hath felt 
The sunshine of existence : can it be 
That music on those bloodless lips hath 
dwelt? 
Now mute and fixed in cold frigidity. 
That smile of merriment, and lightsome glee, 
Should on that clammy marble cheek 
have play'd ? 
Like sunbeams dancing on the daisied lea, 
Or summer gales that wake the primrose 
bed, 
Leaving no trace behind, yet lovely while they 
stay'd. 

O, little dreamt thy mother, on her breast, 

As, cherub-like, thou in thy childhood lay, 
That from its shrine, man's vi'lent hands 
would wrest 
Thy little head; and widely to the day, 
Each crevice, cord, and secret spring dis- 
play- 
That to the earth its crimson stream would 
fall, 



114 STANZAS TO A CHILD. 

As drop the rose-leaves from the shaken 
spray, 
Or autumn berries from the bough, when 
all 
Sweet flowers are gone, and Winter holds his 
carnival. 

And who is he that stands beside thy clay, 
With tearless eye, and sees thy bosom 
torn? 
That sullen, dogged serf; let no one say 
He was thy sire, else would the laugh of 
scorn 
Light on his leaden soul ; the sun of noon 
Ne'er shone upon a duller clod than he. 
Yet wherefore should we j.udge ? Though 
he hath borne, 
And still bears on in mute tranquillity, 
His soul we cannot scan, nor all its secret 
workings see. 

What know we but that soul with bitter 
pangs 
Of noiseless woe is wrung, though tearless 
noAV 
Above thy mutilated frame he hangs, 

With apathy of look, and scowling brow, 
As if his heart were iron ; yet O how 
Terrible the thoughts that may be war- 
ring there ! 



STANZAS TO A CHILD. 115 

Waters are deepest where they smoothest 
flow, 
And his may be the calmness of despair — 
A spirit steel'd, misfortune's stormiest blasts to 
bear. 

Misjudge him not. Speaks not that vacant 
eye 
Of deep abstraction's meditative trance? 
Haply he ruminates on years gone by, 

And at one mournful retrospective glance, 
Beholds his blue-eyed, rosy darling, dance 
In gladsome gambols round his cottage 
hearth, 
And eying her, well pleas'd with looks as- 
kance, 
Blesses the happy hour that gave her birth, 
While his low cottage rings with the young 
prattler's mirth. 

'Tis Sabbath morning, and his heart leaps 

high, 
While with his little one he seeks the 

knoll, 
Dappl'd with daisies, where the stream runs 

by 

The hazel bower, with soft meandering 
roll; 
There while its music steals into his soul, 



116 STANZAS TO A CHILD. 

How his eye glistens as he views the wiles 
Of his fair infant as she pours the whole 
Fresh, flowery treasures on him — dewy 
spoils 
From bank and lawn — and with a father's 
joy he smiles. 

He smiles ! do not wake him from his 
dream 
Of thrilling ecstasy. The summer sun 
Shines beautifully on that bank ; its beam 
Falls on his innocent, young, gleesome 
one, 
While like a fawn she frolics in her fun ; 
Now listening to the brook — anon the 
birds 
Delight her infant soul — now she hath run 
And clasp'd his neck with lisp'd affection's 
words ; 
Ha ! dreamer, wake and see what misery earth 
to thee affords. 

O what a sorrow-breeding life is this, 
Teeming with ailments, evils, groans, and 
tears ; 
A lazar-house of trouble and distress, — 
A pilgrimage of "few and evil years;" 
Or if one pleasure 'mid the waste appears, 
Tis but to cheat us ; and when we would 
clutch 



STANZAS TO A CHILD. 117 

The lovely thing which beauty's semblance 
wears, 
Even for its very frailty prized so much, 
Then like a blighted flower it withers at our 
touch. 

We come into this weary world in tears ; 
Leave it in lamentation ; and between, 
A fearful track of sin and suffering rears 
Its hideous length — a sorrow-checkered 
scene, 
Where pleasure's glimpses briefly intervene, 
Like lightning's flicker in the midnight 
gloom, 
Cool fountains in the desert, spots of green 
And sunny verdure, living flowers whose 
bloom 
But give a darker shade of terror to the 
tomb. 

It was not so with thee, thou blighted 
flower ; 
Thy April sun in smiles a moment shone, 
Seeming to promise many a blissful hour 
Of cloudless beauty; now the spell is 
gone, 
And thou art shrouded, coffined, and anon 
The yawning grave will hide thee from 
our eyes, 



118 STANZAS TO A CHILD. 

And thou wilt slumber soundly and alone, 
Unheeding aught that passeth 'neath the 
skies, 
'Till the archangel's summons bids the dead 
arise. 



SCOTLAND. 

O the bonny hills o' Scotland! I think I see 
them noo, 

Wi' robes o' purple heather bloom and rugged 
peaks of blue, 

Where mountain glen is ringing wi' shep- 
herd's melodie, 

While laverock Upward winging is not more 
blithe than he. 

O the flowery howns o' Scotland, her haughs 

and gowany braes, 
Where blooming, lovesome maidens barefoot 

are bleaching claes, 
And gleesome bairns are skirling, and tenty 

carlines scauld, 
And rosy health is glowing on cheek o' young 

and auld ! 

To the bonny streams o' Scotland, her lochs 

and wimplin' burns, 
My waking visions wander, my sleeping love 

returns ; 
And there the birken sheeling to fancy comes 

again, 
Wi' Jean at gloamin' stealing to meet me i' 

the glen. 



120 SCOTLAND. 

the storied fields of Scotland are fraught 
with battle lore, 

They're rife with Roman mem'ries, they're 
rank with Danish gore ; 

And lion-hearted Wallace wight, the flower of 
chivalrie, 

And Bruce of Bannockburn, shall ne'er for- 
gotten be. 

O the holy men of Scotland, that muster'd 
in their might 

To breast corruption's torrent spate, and battle 
for the right ! 

Each spot rever'd where freely forth their sa- 
cred lives were given, 

Shall ever, like an altar fane, send incense 
sweet to heaven. 

thrice beloved Scotia ! my honored mither 

dear, 
A wanderer's bosom truly beats for thee from 

year to year; 
And when this mortal pilgrimage his weary 

feet hath trod, 
He fain would tak his final sleep beneath a 

Scottish sod. 



SONG. 

A proud heart 'neath a needy coat, 

O' ane o' laigh degree, 
A happy ha', an' humble lot, 

Yet wha daur meddle wi' me ? 

For painted room or lordly bower 

A preen I wad nae gie, 
But place my fit on mountain flower 

Then wha daur meddle wi' me ? 

For in mv soul a something thrills 

All fetterless and free, 
As blasts that sweep my native hills, 

Then wha daur meddle wi' me ? 

There's king and country, knights an' cairds, 

An' men o' ilk degree, 
Dukes, tinkers, statesmen, leals and lairds, 

But wha daur meddle wi' me ? 

Here's to my frien's, here's to my faes, 

An' here's to Ochiltree ; 
God bless him wheresoe'er he gaes, 

An' wha daur meddle wi' me ? 



TOUJOURS LA MEME. 

As gathers the night when the sun seeks the 

sea, 
So, darkens my spirit when parted from thee, 
Thus folds up the daisy in silence alone, 
To weep 'mid the dews when the day-god is 

gone; 
And here in the wildwood I whisper thy name, 
And sigh to the summer wind, Toujours la 

meme. 

Toujours la meme, Mary, far in the wild, 

I see thee before me as last when thou smiled ; 

Thy rosy looks glowing with goodness and 

love, 
As beams the May moon from the blue heaven 

above ; 
And spurning ambition, and grandeur, and 

fame, 
My soul to thee turning, love, Toujours la meme. 



HYMN. 

Loud of the sunshine, cloud, and shower, 
Who swayest nature with Thy nod, 

All space is Thine, all life, all power, 
Thou glorious, wonder-working God. 

All things are Thine — all days, all years, 
All seasons with their varied change ; 

All worlds within their countless spheres 
Throughout creation's boundless ran<r e . 



Thy chariot-path is on the clouds, 
Thy footsteps on the ocean-foam, 

And darkness as a curtain shrouds 
Thy awful cloud-pavilion'd home. 

Yet though in quenchless glory there 

Thou, God, hast made Thy dwelling place, 

Still as a father dost Thou care 

For all that breathe of Adam's race. 



SONG. 

were I but beside thee, love, 
Where thou art soundly sleeping, 

No ills would then betide me, love, 
Whose eyes are dim with weeping, 
My watch of sorrow keeping. 

Sound be thy rest and soft, love, 
That sleep that knows no waking, 

Whose calm I envy oft, love, 
When wild with sorrow aching, 
My lonely heart is breaking. 

There is one soothing thought, love, 
Which God to man hath given; 

With tranquil bliss 'tis fraught, love, 
To hearts with sorrow riven, 
Whose only hope is heaven. 

It points beyond the tomb, love, 

It beckons to the skies, 
Where sorrow cannot come, love, 

To mar the endless joys 

Of God's own paradise. 



THE BEREAVED. 

In vain the mourner seeks to roam, 
He cannot fly from care and pain ; 

The ills that urged him from his home, 
Compel him home again. 

What boots it that his faded eye 

O'er nature's face with rapture ranged? 

The spirit's ailment cannot die, 
And he returns unchanged. 

The bliss, that friendship for an hour. 
Like sunshine to his bosom gave, 

Passed as the dew-drop from the flower, 
The moonbeam from the wave. 

He flew to fields and valleys green 
That former ecstasy had given, 

But she, the angel of the scene, 
Had winged her way to heaven. 

The glorious scenes he gazed upon — 
Wood, river, mountain, lake, and dell — 

Woke in his soul one thrilling tone 
Of pleasure with their spell. 



FAREWELL. 

Farewell ! that fond and love-fraught word, 

Whose talismanic power 
Awakens many a thrilling chord 

Has slumber'd till that hour: 
When like a rich ^olian strain, 
Affection gushes forth again. 

Tis heard above the wild hurrah, 
When charging squadrons meet, 

And those who fall amid the spray, 
Are trodden under feet. 

From many a bosom gashed and gored, 

Is moan'd that one love-breathing word. 

In prayer the warrior utters it, 

Before the battle fray ; 
In tears the sailor mutters it, 

When wings his bark away. 
Upon the whitening surge's swell 
He flings to home his fond farewell. 

When o'er the ship, with wrathful roar, 
The blackening waters boom, 



FAREWELL. 127 

Shrouding the fated seamen o'er, 

Their winding sheet and tomb ; 
Then high above the tempest's yell 
Is heard their anguished shriek — farewell ! 

By the believer's bed of death 

If thou hast ever stood, 
And marked how calmly firm his faith, 

How tranquil was his mood ; 
His spirit longs with God to dwell; 
Yet lingers still to say, farewell! 

The exile weeping on the deck, 

While gazing on his home, 
Now slowly lessening to a speck, 

Now lost amid the foam, 
Still thinks he hears his own adored 
Maria breathe that mournful word. 

Thou sweetly melancholy sound, 

Composed of sobs and sighs ; 
Giver of many a cureless wound 

No skill can cicatrize : 
Breaker of many a blissful spell, 
All — all must breathe thy name — Farewell. 



AULD HAWKIE. 

Auld Hawkie 's hame again, 
Kind Hawkie's hame again ; 
Wife an' weans are fidgin fain, 
To tent auld Horny hame again. 

Our cogs o' parritch, soups o' kail, 
Our blauds o' scones, an' clauts o' meal, 
Her bountith moistens now like rain, 
Since sonsy Hawkie's hame again. 

In simmer days wi' milk an' baps, 

An' dauds o' cheese, we filled our craps, 

An' mony a benison wad sain, 

On Hawkie that 's come hame again. 

Auld Hawkie 's hame again, 
Canny Hawkie 's hame again ; 
There 's laughin' but and daffin' ben : 
The dear auld beast's come back aoain. 



*&■ 



We'll feast our frien's, forgie our faes, 
Fill up our quaichs, forget our waes, 
And Philip Fairly, wale o' men, 
Shall rant, noo Hawkie 's hame again. 



AULD HAWK IE. 129 

Auld Hawkie 's harae again, 
Douce Hawkie 's hame again ; 
Happit snug frae snaw an' rain, 
She'll never mair gae wa' again. 



A MIDNIGHT SKETCH. 

The night is cauld, the fire is out, 
The wind has blawn awa' the cloot, 
I stappit in aneath the door 
To stem its bitter bite and roar. 

That broken pane has loot the blast 
Blavv out my winkin' lamp at last, 
An' left me i' the midnight gloom 
Wi' eerie thoughts and aumry toom. 

The sea is souchin' deep and loud ; 
The masts are wavin' like a wood 
O' leafless trees, whose sobbings seem 
Like drowning seaman's ansfuish'd scream, 



a 



The moon is struggling through the lift. 
Like bark upon the deep adrift, — 
Now seen — and now the bick'ring clouds 
Wi' death-like pall her beauty shrouds. 

Hark ! how the kirkbell's drowsy boom 
Comes knelling through the mirky gloom. 
An' now 'tis hushed — hark! there again 
It rings aboon the wind and rain. 



A MIDNIGHT SKETCH. 131 

High ower the craigs in deafenin' dash 
The big waves hurry, crash on crash, 
Till a' the house, though on a rock, 
Is quakin' in the awesome shock. 

Lord of the sea ! amid the stoure 
Of nature's stormy revel hour, 
Beneath Thy shelterin' wing I'll creep, 
And lay me down in peace to sleep. 

Yea, though the troubled deep should roar 
In yeasty mountains to the shore, 
And wind and rain, an' sheeted licht 
Disturb the stormy brow of nicht. 

Yea, strong in confidence I'll cower 
Beneath Thy mighty arm of power, 
And hope the comin' morn will smile 
Awa' the wrathful night's turmoil. 



SONG. 

TO MARY. 

Mary, the bright star of twilight is beam- 
ing 
Calmly in beauty from out the blue sky, 
While the young moon through the beech-grove 
is gleaming, 
Walking her pathway in glory on high. 

Hark to the merle his vesper-hymn singing, 
Hid in the rose-bower down in the vale, 
While every flower from its bosom is fling- 
ing 
Fragrance and balm on the wings of the 
gale. 



Bright in the streamlet the moonbeams are 
dancing. 
Light thro' the birch shade the breeze softly 
sighs ; 
Clear on the bluebell the dew-drops are glan- 
cing 
Beautiful, love, as thy tale-telling eyes. 






SONG. 133 

Come in thy beauty, then, come in thy splen- 
dor, 
Come in thy loveliness pure and serene ; 
Now thy light form, so bewitchingly tender. 
Clasped to my soul, makes a heaven of the 
scene. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Nid Nodiri." 

they're a' smilin', 

Cheerily smilin', 
They're a' smilin' 

At our house at hame. 

Blessing on the bairnies, 

Blessing on their dame, 
Blessing on the kind hearts 

That wait my comin' hame. 

For they're a' smilin', etc. 

When at e'en I wander, 

Hameward o'er the lea, 
Then my heart grows fain 

For the looks I lo'e to see. 

For they're a' smilin', etc. 

Leeze me on the gloamin', 

Wi' its dewy flowers, 
Leeze me on the blackbird, 

That bigs amang the bowers, 

Where they're a' smilin', etc. 



SONG. 135 

Ste'en and Archie 's dancin' 
Wi' Jeanie through the ha', 

Little Johnnie 's prancin', 
The merriest o' a'. 

An' they're a' smilin', etc. 

Round the knowe I wend 
As the sun gaes to the sea. 

O Johnny dear, ye're welcome ! 
Ye're welcome, love, to me. 

For we're a' smilin' 

Cheerily smilin', 
We're a' smilin', 

At our house at hame, 



TO ORYNTHIA. 

Image of my beloved one, why 

Art thou forever in my si<mt, 
With that calm, thoughtful forehead high, 

Round which the ringlets, dark as night, 
Repose in many a glossy tress 
Of bright luxurious loveliness ? 

It is thy silver voice I hear, 

Replying softly to my own, 
And I can fancy thou art near, 

And only thou and I alone, 
And words of love are breathed, alas 
That never can between us pass. 

I fold thee in my arms once more, 

Our lips with murmured rapture meetino-, 

And feel, as I have felt of yore, 
Beside my own thy bosom beating ; 

And round me thy young arms are twined, 

As death had ne'er the link disjoined. 

That full bright eye of deepest blue 
Is turned upon me, and its glance 



TO ORYNTHIA. 137 

Comes thrilling all my spirit through, 

With its love-lightning radiance ; 
Yet chaste, even in the fondest hour, 
As dew-drop on the lily flower. 

My own adored one, thou and I 
On earth again can never meet; 

But O ! methinks 'twere sweet to die 
With faith unchanging at thy feet, 

And, breathing out my soul in prayer, 

Arise to heaven to meet thee there. 



THE EEFUGE. 

" Whom have I in heaven hut thee ? " Psalm Ixxiii. 25. 

But Thee., O God, but Thee, 
To whom shall I address 
My wail of deep distress ? 
Thou only who canst see 
My spirit's brokenness; 
Thou only, who alone canst heal 
The pangs I bear, the ills I feel. 

To Thee, O God ! to Thee, 
With lowly heart I bend ; 
Lord, to my prayer attend, 
And haste to succor me. 
Thou never-failinor Friend ! 
For seas of trouble o'er me roll, 
And whelm with fears my sinking soul. 

From Thee, God! from Thee, 

By phantom passions led, 

Like him of old 1 I fled! 
Saying, This earth shall be 

To me a heaven instead ; 
1 Jonah. 



THE REFUGE. 139 

But then didst Thou in mercy thrust 
My earthly idol to the dust. 

On Thee, O God! on Thee, 
With humble hope I'll lean — 
Thou who hast ever been 
A hiding-place to me, 

In many a troubl'd scene — 
Whose heart, with love and mercy fraught, 
Back to the fold Thy wand'rer brought. 



THE HOMESICK. 

The blue-eyed sailor-boy hath left his child- 
hood's happy home, 

And the high, and stern, and heath-clad hills 
his spirit loved to roam ; 

Around his weeping mother's neck his arms he 
fondly threw, 

And kissed his weeping sisters three, and to 
the beach he flew. 

One parting cheer to native home the gallant 
seaman gave, 

When like a deer the stately bark went bound- 
ing o'er the wave. 

To lands far in the sunny west the sailor-boy 
is gone, 

While like a star the light of hope within his 
bosom shone. 

Years waned away, and many a shore the sailor- 
boy had seen, 

But fortune smiled upon his path, where'er his 
bark had been ; 

For many a deed of high emprise and daring 
he hath done, 

And his good ship from England's foes for 
guerdon he hath won. 



THE HOMESICK. 141 

He wander'd long in distant lands, until his 

manhood's prime, 
And then began his soul to droop beneath the 

torrid clime ; 
While thick upon his brooding thoughts a 

gloomy twilight crept, 
And like a lone, forsaken thing he sat him down 

and wept. 

He reck'd not of the glory of their gorgeous 

tropic flowers ; 
Unheeded were their orange groves and incense 

breathing bowers : 
His soul was sick of foreign climes, and longed 

again to roam 
The breezy hills that beautified his ocean-girdled 

home. 

He thought upon the thrilling strains his fair 
young sisters sung, 

And the magic of each melody still in his 
mem'ry rung ; 

He heard his wild- wood's minstrelsy, and from 
his native hills 

Would dream he heard the voices of the joy- 
ous summer rills. 

He gaz'd upon his goodly bark, that proudly in 
the bay 



142 THE HOMESICK. 

Loomed like a beauteous ocean-bird to bear him 

far away ; 
Away before the wakening gale, away upon 

the sea ! 
With canvas spread, and home ahead, his 

spirit longed to be. 

But o'er his faded eye a dim and hazy dark- 
ness came, 

And sickness with tornado's speed shot through 
his burning frame ; 

He heeded not his sobbing crew, that round 
their leader crowd : 

His noble bark awaits, but he is sleeping in 
his shroud. 

They laid him by the waveless deep, where 
high the stately palm 

Stands in its hermit solitude amid the breath- 
less calm ; 

And when the breeze of even-tide comes moan- 
ing from the main, 

It stirs the feathery branches with a low and 
dirge-like strain. 



&' 



There sleeps the fair-haired mariner, far in the 

burning west, 
With summer's glorious garniture above his 

place of rest ; 






THE HOMESICK. 14.3 

There slumbers he, the fearless one, the brave. 

yet gentle-souled : 
who would seek a foreign clime, or sigh for 

foreign gold ? 



LIZZY LASS. 

Lizzy lass, Lizzy lass, 
Look but in this keeking glass, 
There the faultless form you'll see 
Dearest in this world to me : 
Eye of azure, brow of snow, 
Cheeks that mock the roses' glow, 
Lips whose smiles all smiles surpass, 
These are thine, dear Lizzy lass. 

Lizzy lass, Lizzy lass, 
Deeply in this siller tass, 
Brimming with the ruby wine, 
Let me pledge to thee and thine. 
Youth may vanish, eye grow dim, 
Age creep over heart and limb ; 
But till life away shall pass, 
I will love thee, Lizzy lass. 



SONG. 

O list, lady, list, to the sad music ringing 
From yonder lone spot in the valley you 
see : 
'Tis Patrick O'Connor's own Norah a-sing- 

in g, 
To lull the sweet baby that sits on her 
knee. 

Around her neat cabin-door tenderly wreath- 
ing, 
The gay honeysuckle fantastically blooms ; 
While by her low lattice all balmily breath- 
ing. 
Sweet-briers and jessamine blend their per- 
fumes. 

Poor Patrick, God bless him ! was scarce a 

week wedded 

When cruelly fettered and forced to the 

main, 

While Norah, sweet girl, like a fair lily, faded, 

And ne'er thought to see her dear Patrick 



10 



146 SONG. 

And oft, when the merry lark wakens the mor- 
row, 
Poor Norah you'll find busy plying her 
wheel, 
And pensively singing such sad notes of sor- 
row 
As tears from the hardest of natures might 
steal. 

And thus crawls one weary week after another, 
No friend with poor Norah to weep or con- 
dole. 
But where hies that stranger in haste ? Holy 
Mother ! 
Tis Patrick himself — now she's clasped to 
his soul. 



SONG. 

but he's an auld body ! 

but he's a cauld body ! 
How could I gie heed to him ? 

Puir fusionless twafauld body. 
mither, dinna break my heart; 

1 canna bide his wooin' ; 
Gowd canna hide, nor yet can art, 

The back wi' auld a<je bowin.' 
O but he's an auld body, etc. 

A fitless stap, a feckless arm, 
Wi' een baith blind an' bleery, 

Are unco pithless spells to charm 
A lassie young an' cheery. 

O but he's an auld body, etc. 

Sae mither, mither, ban nae mair, 
I canna bide his clavers ; 

Wha for a wooer's vows wad care, 

Whase voice wi' dotage wavers ? 

O but he's an auld body, etc. 

Ye wadna seek the rose o' June 
'Mid snell December's snawin', 



148 sOiXG. 

Nor listen to the goudspink's tune 
When Beltane winds are blawin'. 
but he's an auld body. etc. 

Nor wad ye look in ee o' eiid 
For love's saft glamour beamin', 

Or trow that doited pow could yield 
To youth's delightful dreatnin'. 
O but he's an auld body, etc. 



JEANIE GRAHAM. 

She whose lang, loose, unbraided hair 

Falls on a breast o' purest snavv. 
Was ance a maid as mild an' fair 

As e'er wil'd stripling's heart awa. 
But sorrow's shade has dimni'd her ee, 

And gather'd round her happy hame ; 
Yet wherefore sad ? and where is he, 

The plighted love of Jeanie Graham ? 

The happy bridal day was near, 

And blithe young joy beam'd on her brow -, 
But he is low she lov'd so dear, 

And she a virgin widow now. 
The night was mirk, the stream was high, 

And deep and darkly down it came ; 
He sunk — and wild his drowning cry 

Rose in the blast to Jeanie Graham. 

Bright beams the sun on Garnet Hill; 

The stream is calm, the sky is clear 
But Jeanie's lover's heart is still — 

Her anjmish'd sobs he cannot hear. 



150 JEAN IE GRAHAM. 

make his grave in yonder dell, 

Where willows wave above the stream 

That every passing breeze may wail 
For broken-hearted Jeanie Graham. 






THE BEATIFIED CHILD. 

Why are you sad, dearest mother ? 

Why do you sigh and weep ? 
And wherefore does baby brother 

Lie there so long asleep ? 

And why are those white clothes round him, 
And in those long white bands ? 

Why have you so closely bound him, 
And hidden his little hands ? 

He is pale, pale, dearest mother, . 

And wakes not now at all ; 
Though I kiss him, and call, " Wake, brother ! '' 

He heeds not kiss nor call. 

On tiptoe to-day I hastened 

At morning hour of prayer, 
And long by his couch I listened, 

But not a breath was there. 

And then methought you would wake him, 

When from his cradle bed 
Toil, weeping, softly did take him, 

And in that dark chest laid. 



152 THE BEATIFIED CHILD. 

Yet sweet little baby stirred not, 
Though o'er his couch you hung ; 

Nor breath nor cry we heard not, 
While evening psalm we sung. 

But there, like a pale rose blighted 

By winter's nipping chill, 
He lay on that cold couch sheeted, 

In slumber still, still, still ! 

Why, dearest mother, are you weeping ? 

Is darling baby dead ? 
Is it death's long sleep he is sleeping, 

That you mourn o'er his bed? 

O ! then let us pray, dear mother, 

Unto our Saviour, God, 
That at death we may meet baby brother, 

And share his blessed abode. 






LAURA'S SMILE. 

Fair Laura's smile, sweet Laura's smile, 
Is fraught with many an artless wile : 
Unchanged on me it fondly beams, 
And fills my soul with blissful dreams. 
Fair Laura's love, fair Laura's smile, 
Oft makes me wander many a mile, 
Through pathless moors at midnight drear, 
To pour my love-tale in her ear. 

Fair Laura's smile, sweet Laura's smile, etc. 

Her eyes, that mock the diamond's blaze, 
Ne'er charm so much my doating gaze, 
As the soft, soul-entrancing wile 
That revels in her rosy smile ; 
And yet the bashful, timid glance, 
Of those blue eyes' irradiance, 
In all their power of witchery, 
Might tempt an angel from the sky. 

Fair Laura's smile, sweet Laura's smile, etc. 

Thy Leila's eyes are mild and bright 
Like twin stars in a summer night, 
When earth and sky are hushed and calm, 
And every floweret breathing balm. 



154 LAURA'S SMILE. 

Yes ! beauteous is their beam, I own, 
As e'er on raptured lover shone ; 
But yet they want the winning wile 
That dimples in fair Laura's smile. 

Fair Laura's smile, sweet Laura's smile, etc. 

'Tis not the cheek's soft, sunny glow, 
The heaving bosom's stainless snow, 
The form which youth and love array, 
To which the heart doth homage pay. 
No ! 'tis the gentle, pitying look, 
Which praise or blame unmoved can brook ; 
The glistening eye, and soothing tone, 
Which makes another's woes its own. 

Fair Laura's smile, sweet Laura's smile, etc. 

With her the humblest rustic shed 
That ever sheltered peasant's head, 
Would be a shrine of love the while, 
If brightened by her angel smile. 
Fair Laura's smile, sweet Laura's smile, 
Is fraught with many an artless wile : 
Unchanged on me it fondly beams, 
And fills my soul with blissful dreams. 



O BLESSING ON HER STAR-LIKE EEN. 

blessing on her star-like een, 
Wi' their glance o' love divine : 

And blessing on the red, red lip, 
Was press'd yestreen to mine ! 

Her braided locks that waved sae light, 
As she danced through the lofty ha', 

Were like the cluds on the brow o' night, 
Or the wing o' the hoodie craw. 

O mony a jimp an' gentle dame, 

In jewel'd pomp was there ; 
But she was first amang them a', 

In peerless beauty rare. 

Her bosom is a holy shrine, 

Unstain'd by mortal sin, 
An' spotless as the snaw-white foam, 

On the breast o' the siller linn. 

Her voice — hae ye heard the goudspink's 
note, 

By bowery glen or brake ? 
Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay 

By sea or mountain lake ? 



156 BLESSING ON HER STAR-LIKE EEN. 

Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bower o' heaven, 

The angels' melodie ? 
Or fancied ye listened the sang o' the spheres 

As they swung on their path on hie ? 

Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love, 

At the gloamin' hour yestreen ; 
An' O ! were I king o' the whole warld wide, 

I would mak' that maiden my queen. 






SONG. 

Tune — " Will ye go to the ewebug?tts, Marion f n 

Sweetly the wild gray gloaming 
Steals o'er yon auld castle wa'. 

Let us, my lassie, be roaming 
Adown by the greenwood shavv. 

There i' the birken sheeling, 
Twined by mysel' yestreen, 

Far frae the rude and unfeeling, 
We will recline us unseen. 

Saftly the mild dew's fa'in', 
Clear on the greenwood bower, 

Sweetly the mild rose is blawin' 
Wi' mony a fragrant flower. 

Come then, my love, let us wander, 
Awa' to the flowery down, 

Far frae the warldlings wha squander 
Their hours i' the dinsome town. 

O ! but my native valleys, 
Wi' thee, my ain dear Jean, 

Are sweeter to me than the palace, 
Tho' glitterin' wi' gouden sheen. 



LIZZY LORRIMER. 

Is dear Lizzy brawley and cheerie ? 

Is kind Lizzy canty at hame ? 
Aye etlin' to mak' ithers happy, 

The blithe-hearted, kind-hearted dame ? 

Her smile is sae lightsome an' winning, 
Her voice sae enticin' an' sweet, 

Enraptured I gladly could listen 
The lang simmer day at her feet. 

To think o' her cheers my dark moments. 

To sing o' her chases my pain, 
To dream o' her is to be blessed, 

For then she is wholly my ain. 

She rates me an' preaches o 1 prudence, 
She cows me in holy reproof, 

Until I conclude she's an angel, 
An' I baith a culprit an' coof. 

If lovin' be sic a transgression, 
how can I e'er be forgiven ! 

Yet certes ane fairly may doubt it — 
Since loving 's the business o' heaven. 



LIZZY LORRIMER. 159 

There's Abraham, Isaac, an' Jacob 
Lo'ed women, as well we a' ken ; 

An' were I but snugly beside them. 
I think I fu' brawly might fen'. 

The priest he cries, " Dinna think on her ! " 
The lawyer cries " Ditto ! " to that ; 

But gin I esteem her wi' honor, 
What dei'l wad the gomrals be at ? 

I love her because she is loving ; 

I love her because she is true; 
An' she, on my loyalty leaning, 

Shall never ha'e reason to rue. 

Then here's to her heart-winning sweetness, 
And here's to her goodness and truth, — 

Those charms that know no decaying, 
Outlasting baith beauty and youth. 



TO LTZZY. 

I love ye, gentle Lizzy, 

"With a pure and holy flame ; 
I love ye, darling Lizzy, 

With a love that none can blame. 
The very air around ye, love, 

Breathes odors unto me, 
And all that's loving, kind, and true, 

Seems met in Lizzy Lee. 

Though graceful is the heath-bell, 

The lily on the wold, 
The foxglove trembling on its stem, 

The gowan fringed with gold ; 
These faintly shadow forth thy sweets, 

And, beauteous though they be, 
They lack the spirit's loveliness 

Of winning Lizzy Lee. 

I dream of all our rambles o'er 

That em'rald-swarded walk, 
Where, winged, the golden moments flew 

In murmur'd loving talk ; 






TO LIZZY. 161 

I hear some gentle cautions, 

In a voice of melodie ; 
"lis the guardian angel warnings 

r? o o 

Of the stainless Lizzy Lee. 

I wander clown the garden path, 

At twilight's coming gloom, 
And muse in pleasant reveries 

Beside the bush of broom ; 
And sigh for some lone island 

In the far Pacific sea, 
Where my heav'n of bliss might centre 

In the love of Lizzy Lee. 



11 



MY SOUL IS EVER WITH THEE. 

My soul is ever with thee ; 

My thoughts are ever with thee ; 
As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the 
lea, 

So turns my fond spirit to thee ; 

' Mid the cares of the lingering day, 

When troubles around me be, 
In fancy for aye will be flitting away, — 

Away, my beloved, to thee. 

When the night-pall has darkly spread. 

Its shadows o'er tower and tree, 
Then the visions of my restless bed 

Are all, my beloved, of thee. 

When I greet the morning beams — 
When the midnight star I see — 

Alone — in crowded halls — my dreams, 
My dreams are forever of thee. 

As spring to the leafless spray ; 

As calm to the surging sea ; 
To the weary, rest — to the watcher, day — 

So art thou, loved Mary, to me. 






SONG. 

will ye come down to me, hinny ? 

O will ye come clown to me, doo ? 
For when a' the lave are sound sleepin,' 

I've come o'er the muir to meet you. 
The way it was lanesome and eerie, 

The night is baith rainy an' cauld, 
Yet hope gar'd the muirland seem cheery, 

And love made me blithesome an' bauld. 

In simmer, when bairnies thegither, 

We roamed ower the gowany braes, 
Or wandered at will 'mang the heather, 

Or up the glen gaed pu'in slaes. 
Ye mind frae the kirk o' Blairgowrie, 

When comin' sae courtly at e'en, 
Ye vow'd ye wad ha'e nane but Lowrie : 

Now Lowrie is waitin' for Jean. 

What reck I for maidens o' tocher ? 

What care I for kith or for kin ? 
A leal heart is a' I can offer, — 

A leal heart is a' I wad win. 
Then hoolily haste thee doun, dawtie, 

O hoolily haste ye doun, doo ! 
For were the womenkind a' single, 

I'd ha'e nane, dear lassie, but you. 



MY FATHER'S GRAVE. 

Where is my sainted father's place of rest ? 
I fain would look upon it — on the turf 
That wraps the hallowed ashes of my sire. 
Might I but weep, but shed one filial drop 
Of fond remembrance o'er the sacred dust 
Which lies forgotten in the place of graves, 
Without a stone to mark it. What is this ? 
What see I here ? A shapeless heap of mould 
Garnished with verdure. Is this, then, his 

grave — 
My father's grave — his silent, last, long 

home, — 
His haven of repose, where the frail bark 
Is safely moored from all the ills of time ? 

And sleeps he here, the man who gave me 

life; 
The author of my existence ? What a throng 
Of recollections of my early days 
Crowd in upon my soul ! Thoughts of the 

past 
That flit across my mind like the dim forms 
Of some forgotten dream. In memory's eye 



MY FATHERS GRAVE. 165 

I see thee yet, my father : hear thee speak, 
And list the firm deep music of thy voice, 
When thou first told me of a heaven above, 
To which the souls of good men pass at 

death ; 
A God, the Maker of this earth, these skies, 
And all the living things that breathe therein ; 
Of a deep hell beneath, — a burning lake 
Of everlasting pain, where sinners go 
Who disobey their Maker. And I listened 
In breathless silence to the awful truth, 
And prayed thee, father, when thou went to 

heaven, 
To take me with thee. Then, O what a look 
Of heavenly sweetness and parental love 
Thou gavest, while hanging o'er thy poor 

young boy, 
As he sat, softly cradled in thy arms, 
Borne upon thy knee! But now 'tis past — 
And thou art sleeping in the dreary land 
Of dark forgetfulness — voiceless and still ; 
While I stand here in noontide of my youth 
Musing above thy dwelling. 

Alas ! alas ! for human life, what is it ? 
A flower — a breath — a bubble on the stream, 
That breaks and disappears ; and I that stand 
Here in the ruddy glow of youth and health 
Must, in a few brief fleeting years at farthest, 
Repose me by thy side, my sainted sire, 



166 MY FATHER'S GRAVE. 

Breathless — voiceless — torpid — silent — and 

still, — 
A thing of nothing — a mere shred of earth, 
Such as thou now art. 'Tis a dark, dread 

thought 
To those who have no paradise but earth, — 
No God but Mammon. But to those whose 

hearts 
And aims soar heavenward, — to the humble 

few 
Whose hope is anchored on the " Rock of 

Ages," — 
'Tis a heart-cheering, animating thought, 
Which comes like sunshine o'er the good man's 

soul, 
Turning his grief to gladness, tears to joy : 
Because death brings the harvest of his bliss, 
The rich, full harvest day — the great reward 
Of all his troubles ; and the noisome grave, 
That quite annihilates the worldling's joy, 
But opes his passage into light and life. 



THE CLOSE.i 

Waning life and weary ; 

Fainting- heart and limb; 
Darkening road and dreary; 

Flashing eye grown dim — 
All betokening nightfall near. 
Day is done, and rest is dear. 

Slowly stealing shadows 

Westward lengthening still, 
O'er the dark brown meadows, 

O'er the sunlit hill. 

Gleams of golden glory 

From the opening sky, 
Gild those temples hoary — 

Kiss that closing eye. 

Now drops the curtain on all wrong 

Throes of sorrow — grief and song. 

But saw ye not the dying, 
Ere life passed away, 

1 This poem, composed by the author of this collection 
during his last illness, was found among his papers, written 
with a faltering hand. 



168 THE CLOSE. 

Faintly smile while eying 
Yonder setting day? 

And, his pale hand signing 

Man's redemption sign, 
Cried, with forehead shining, 

" Father, I am Thine ! " 
And so to rest he quietly hath passed, 
And sleeps in Christ the Comforter, at last. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Since the publication of the first edition of 
these poems, a large number of others, written 
by Mr. Wilson, have been discovered among his 
papers. 

From these the Editor has selected the few 
which appear in the following pages. 
September, 1874. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



THE AWAKENING OF THE WIND. 

Hurrah ! the wind ! the mighty wind,. 

Like lion from his lair up-sprung, 
Hath left his Arctic home behind, 

And off his slumbers flung 1 ; 
While over lake and peaceful sea 
With track of crested foam sweeps he ! 

Hurrah ! the wind, the mighty wind, 

Hath o'er the deep his chariot driven, 
Whose waters, that in peace reclined, 

Uplash the roof of heaven ; 
Then on the quaking cliff-bound shore, 
They foaming dash with deafening roar. 

The ship loomed on the waveless sea, 
Her form was imaged in its breast, 

And beauteous of proportion she, 
As ever billow prest ; 

And graceful there as stately palm, 

She towered amid the sultry calm. 



172 THE AWAKENING OF THE WIND. 

Her flair hung mooveless by the mast, 
Her sails drooped breezeless and unbent, 

And oft the seaman's glance was cast 
Along the firmament, 

To note if there he might descry 

The wakening gale approaching nigh. 

On came the wind, the reckless wind, 
Fast sweeping on his furious way, 

His tempest rushing pinions brined 
In wrathful ocean's spray ; 

On came the wind, and, as he past, 

The shriek of death was in the blast. 

The tall ship by the shrouds he took, 
To shivering shreds her canvas rent ; 

Then like a reed her mast he shook, 
And by the board it went, 

While yawned the deep with hideous din 

As if prepared to gulf her in. 

With fruitless effort on she reels, 
The giant wind is in her wake ; 

The mountain billow's coil she feels 
Around her like a snake : 

Locked in that unrelenting grasp, 

She struggling sinks with stifled gasp. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the victor wind 
Hath swept the ocean rover down, 



THE AWAKENING OF THE WIND. 173 

And left a shipless sea behind, 
With many a corse between ; 
And swift, unfettered, strong and free, 
Like eagie on his path, speeds he ! 



BESSY'S WOOING. 

PUBLISHED BY AV. W. IN 1829. 

O guess ye wha's gane a-becking an' bowing, 
Gness ye wha's gane a-billing an' cooing, 
Gness ye wha's gane a-coaxing an' wooing, 
To bonny young Bessy, the flower o' the 
glen? 

Auld Suter Rabbie, that trigs himsell brawly, 
Auld Barber Wattie, that smirks aye sae waly, 
Auld Elder Johnie, sae meek an' sae haly, 
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen. 

Fat Deacon Sandy, the high council nabby, 
Wee Tailor Davy, sae glibly an' gabby, 
Dominie Joseph, sae threadbare an' shabby, 
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen. 

Big Mason Andrew, sae heavily fisted, 

Jock Gude-for-naething, wha three times has 

listed, 
Lang Miller Geordie, wi' meal a' bedusted, 
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o ? the glen. 

Glee'd Cooper Cuddie, a girded fu' tightly, 



BESSrS WOOING. 175 

Red-nosed Sawyer Will, wi' his face shining 

brightly, 
The tree-legged Pensioner, marching fu' lightly, 
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen. 

They're sighin' an' sobbin', an' vowin' an swear- 

in', 
They're challenging duellin', boxin', an' tearin', 
While Bess, pawky jade, is aye smirkin' an' 

jeer in' ; 
There ne'er was a gill-flirt like Bess o' the 

glen. 

But a young Highland drover came here wi' 

some cattle, 
Got fou, an' spak Gaelic, got fierce, and gae 

battle, 
An' a' the haill pack did he lustily rattle ; 
O was nae that fun to young Bess o' the 

glen ? 

His weel shapit shouthers caught Bessie's black 

eye — 
Her head gae a stound, an' her heart gae a 

sigh — 
An' now the bauld drover's men ower driving 

kye; 
For troth he's baith laird o' young Bess an' 

the glen. 



WHEN I WAS FIRST A MASON MADE. 

SONG. 
Tune — " Gill Morris was an carle son." 

When I was first a Mason made, 

I was a haflin chiel, 
The auld wives cried an' shook their heads 
"He's listit wi' the diel." 

" Awa' awa' ! " my mither cried, 
" Ye graceless ne'er do weel, 
Within my house ye eanna bide, 
Ye've listit wi' the diel." 

My granny wi' the bairns did cour, 

Ahint her auld wee wheel. 
An' drew a circle on the floor 

To fley awa' the diel. 

My faither. at the ingle sat, 

Just now come frae' the fiel', 
An' cried, while tears his auld cheeks wat, 
"Ye've listit wi' the diel." 

" My bairn, my bairn, I fear, I fear 
Ye'll never mair doe weel, 



WHEN I WAS FIRST A MASON MADE. 177 

When ye could lea your parents dear 
To gang an' meet the diel." 

I met young Effie on the craft, 
Who loed me ay sae weel ; 
An' she fled an' cried as she'd been daft, 
"Ye've listit wi' the diel." 

'Twas thus that superstition reigned 

Wi' ruthless rod of steel, 
And when the sons of light conven'd, 
Fouk cried, " they raise the diel." 



12 



EPISTLE FROM NIAGARA. 

TO JEANIE. 

Dear Jeanie, while the deafning roar 
Of Niagara shakes the shore, 
And in a misty mantle hoar, 

Shrouds rock and tree, 
My thoughts fly homeward evermore 

To worship thee. 

'Tis true, this is the place and time 
To feel and foster the sublime ; 
Where men of ev'ry hue and clime, 

Meet to adore, 
And the rapt spirit's glowing hymn, 

May heavenward soar. 

Yet still thy form, my peerless Jean, 

Is ever present to my e'en, 

Lighting with smiles each sylvan scene 

By bower and hall, 
Log-hut and hamlet, woodland green 

And waterfall. 



EPISTLE FROM XI AGAR A. 179 

And when alone I wond'ring stand 
Amid these revelations grand, 
Which the Almighty builder's hand 
On high did rear, 
I whisper, while my thoughts expand, 

" Would she were here ! " 

Would she were here to share my bliss, 
Beholding- grandeur such as this, 
Where loud the tortur'd waters hiss, 

And bright on high 
The rainbow in its loveliness 

Bedecks the sky. 

Since first the stars together sung, 

And earth was fair, and Time was young, 

And Eden's bowers responsive rung 

Man's song of praise, • 
That bow of beauty there hath hung 

Its prism rays. 

So o'er the scenes of storm and strife 
That cloud the weary dream of life, 
With pleasures scant, with sorrows rife, 

A bow shall be 
Thy love, my own leal-hearted wife, 

For aye to me. 

Away, ye hours, on falcon wing, 
And back the wand'ring Willie bring, 



180 EPISTLE FROM NIAGARA. 

Who scarcely now can think or sing, 
Of aught but hame, 

And her the queen of all the ring, 

Dear Jeanie Graham. 



DARK'S THE WINTER NIGHT AN' 
DREAR. 

Dark's the winter night an' drear, 

Yet I naething hae to fear, 

My gude-man will soon be here, 

To keep me light an' cheery. 

Loud the wind is soughin' by, 

Snell the drift drives through the sky ; 

Haste ye hame, my love, for I 

Am grown dull an' eerie. 

Oh ! when he comes smiling in, 
How the blithsome bairnies rin, 
Fondly kiss him cheek an' chin, 

An' ca' him dad an' deary. 

Then wi' ane upon ilk knee, 

Aft he sings sae merrilie, 

That tears o' gladness fill my e'e, 

While gazing on my deary. 

What care I for warld's gear, 
While belov'd by ane sae dear, 
Poortith's frown I dinna fear, 

Gin my jo be near me. 



182 DARK'S THE WINTER NIGHT AN DREAR. 

A' my greatest bliss has been, 
Aye to keep him trig an' clean, 
In his arms to lie at e'en, 

An' be his bosom deary. 

Hark ! I hear him on the stair — 
Meg, draw in the muckle chair, 
"Welcome, Willie, hame ance mair. 

Come sit ye down, my deary. 



MEG MACREE. 

Saw ve aught o' Mecr Macree ? 

Ego and ago. 
Speer'd she e'er a word for me ? 

Oram coram da°;o. 



She has fouth o' wit and lear, 

Ego and ago, 
Glancing in her e'en sae clear 

Oram coram dacro. 

She has sense, and soul, and worth, 

Eo-o and ajro. 
Better far than lofty birth, 

Oram coram dasro. 



She is frank an' debonair 



Ego and ago. 



Would she were a wee thocht mair 
Oram coram dao-o. 

She is a' the world to me, 

Ego and ago, 
Smiling, courtly Meg Macree, 

Oram coram dago. 



184 MEG MACREE. 

Were we in a boat thegither, 

Ego and ago. 
Sailing on, the Lord kens whither, 

Oram coram dago. 

Far frae cities an' their din, 

Ego and ago, 
I would worship her an' win, 

Oram coram daao. 

Worship her on bended knee 

Esto and aoo. 
Win her, lovely Meg Macree, 

Oram coram dago. 



MEET ME AT THE CLOSE 0' DAY, 

SONG. 

Meet me at the close o' day, 
Meet me. at the gloamin' gray, 
Meet me by the breckan brae, 
My bonny Robin. 

When far i' the gouden west 
The weary sun gaes to his rest, 
An' little birdies seek their nest, 
Meet me, bonny Robin. 
Meet me at the close o' day, etc. 

When the lang day's darg is through, 
An' the owsen lea' the plough, 
'Mang the broom I'll meet wi you, 
My bonny Robin. 
Meet me at the close o' day, etc. 

Though thou art a cottar swain, 
An' my daddy laird o' Blane, 
I'll hae thee, or I'll hae nane — 
My bonny Robin. 

Meet me at the close o' day, 

Meet me at the gloamin' gray, 

Meet me by the breckan brae, 

Mv bonny Robin. 
1822. 



THE ABSENT WIFE. 

I wish my Meg were hame again. 
For wow but she's been lang awa, 

An' I am dowie here my lane 
Wi' nane to cheer me noo, ava. 

I'll belt my plaid an' grip my rung, 
An' to the bent wi' a' my birr; 

Yestreen I lay alane — the night 
I'll lay. my lugs I'll lie by her. 

The gate is lang an' mirk's the lift, 
An' mony a brae an' burn between. 

But what is time or toil when gaim 
To clasp the waist we lo'e at e'en ? 

An' she will tak' me in her arms 
An' ca' me a' that's kind and dear, 

An' kiss me ower an' ower, an' wet 
My cheek wi' fond affection's tear. 

An' she will tell me a' her love, 

Doubts, dreams, and thinkings, joys and 
waes, 



THE ABSENT WIFE. 137 

As meek an' artless as the lamb 

That 'mang the muirland heather plays. 

Oh, sirs, but love's a lovely thing, 
The human bosom's blessed sun, 

An' oh may mine shine cloudless on, 
Until my thread o' life be spun. 



GLENISLA MARY. 

There's douce auld carles yont the Craft, 
An' winsome wives in Broughty Ferry ; 

There's bonny maids in Lillybank, 
But nane like my Glenisla Mary. 

The Seidlaw Hills are wreathed wi' snaw, 
The breakers roar aboon the Ferry ; 

But when the gowan decks the Law, 
I'll meet my dear Glenisla Mary. 

The wind and tide may change and veer, 
But love like mine can never vary j 

For lang as light to life is dear, 
I'll love thee, sweet Glenisla Mary. 



A TRIBUTE. 

Before the sacred altar of thy beauty 

With wandering feet I hither come to kneel 

In silent gratitude and worldless duty, 
Such as the true in faith alone can feel. 

Then from thy threshold, dearest, do not spurn 
me, 

A pilgrim to the music of thy shrine ; 
Nor from its precincts with displeasure turn me, 

Who never bowed at altar save at thine. 

Unheralded I come once more before thee, 
Unblazoned from thy presence would depart ; 

Beseeching but in silence to adore thee, 

And hide thy image deep within my heart — 

Deep in my heart of hearts, unseen, unspoken, 
But worshipp'd mutely with a martyr's love — 

Until it meet thee, with a pledge unbroken, 
Beatified among the blest above. 



THE GLAD VOICE OF SPRING IN THE 
WOODLANDS IS RINGING. 

SONG. 
Tune — " The Glenorcliy Maid." 

The glad voice of Spring in the woodlands 
is ringing, 
The herd's cheery whistle comes blythe frae 
the hill. 
The mavis fu' sweet in the valley is singing, 
An' saft down the glen comes the sound o' 
the rill. 

The mild e'ening dew gently fa's on the gowan, 
The lammies are loupin upon the green lea ; 

The clear siller stream through the valley is 
rowin, 
An' a' thing is lightsome and cheery but me. 

The hill an' the valley, the muir an' the 
mountain, 
The broom shaded burnie, the woodland sae 
fair, 
The hawthorn bower, and the clear bosom'd 
fountain, 
Can brighten my dark night of sorrow nae 
mair. 



TEE GLAD VOICE OF SPRING. 191 

O Nature, thy grandeur could auce gie me 
gladness, 
When roaming the wildwood or skimming 
the wave, 
But now a' thy loveliness fills me with sadness, 
For green is the turf on my true lover's 
grave. 



TO 



Albeit my youth-hood's sunny noon is over, 
My heart to beauty is not yet grown cold, 

And round my forehead still some ringlets 
hover, 
The sober gray is mingling with the gold. 

From thee in vain would time the roses gather, 
And dim the heaven of thy dark blue eye, 

For thou hast beauties that no time can wither, 
That shall the winter of his flight defy. 

Yet there are feelings no decay can wither, 
Throbs no lapse of passing years can still, 

Souls that at first sight so come together, 
That stern death can ne'er divide nor chill. 



OH ! HEAVY AN' CHILL FA'S THE WIN- 
TRY RAIN. 

SOXG. 
Tune — "As I came in by the Duke of AihoVs gates." 

Oh ! heavy an' chill fa's the wintry rain, 
But I hae a bonny wee flower o' my ain, 
An' I '11 screen it frae the cauld and the win- 
try wet, 
Oh ! my bonny bairn's young, but she's grow- 
ing yet. 

Now what think ye is the flower that I mean ? 
'Tis a bonny wee lassie o' my ain, ca'd Jean. 
She's her daddy's very image frae the head to 

the fit, 
Oh ! my bonny bairn's young, but she's growing 

yet. 

When I took her to the priest i' the holy place, 
She smil'd when he sprinkl'd the water on her 

face, 
And the blessing o' heaven she surely will get, 
Oh ! my bonny bairn's young, but she's growing 

yet. 

13 



194 SONG. 

I' the kirk there were bairnies bonny an' braw, 
But my bonny bairn was the flower o' them a', 
For her skin was like the lily, an' her e'en a 

lovely jet, 
Oh ! my bonny bairn's young, but she's growing 

yet. 

Oh ! sweet is the smile o' her laughin mou', 
WT lips like roses wat wi' the clew ; 
Twa lovlier lips I'm sure never met, 
Oh ! my bonny bairn's young, but she's growing 
yet. 

Oh ! heaven may thy benisons fast on her fa', 
And lang may she cheer an' enliven our ha', 
For she is her daddy's pride and her lovely 

mammy's pet, 
Oh ! my bonny bairn's young, but she's growing 

yet. 

When my pow's whitened ower like a snawy 

wreath, 
And my auld brow's damp wi' the dew o' death, 
Then she '11 cheer me wi' her smile till the 

sun o' life is set, 
Oh ! my bonny bairn's young, but she's growing 

yet. 



ON A PAINTING OF TWO CHILDKEN. 

Bless ye, my darlings, with your cherub looks 

Of gleesome innocence ; those happy smiles 
Fall on my heart like sunbeams. Why, od- 
zooks ! 
Some spell, for certain, my crazed ear be- 
guiles ; — 
Methinks I hear your voices like the clear 
Murmuring music of two tiny brooks — 
Now wand'ring far apart, now whisp'ring near, 
And bickering onward thus in mirth for 
miles, 
Cheering the traveller on his path, the peasant 
at his toils. 

And there ye breathe in childhood's happy bloom, 

Arrested by the pencil's wizard power, 
Amid the dewy freshness and perfume 

Of that o'erarching leafy summer bower. 
Oh ! that life's bright unclouded morning dream 

Would last forever ; that the sunshine hour 
Of joyous infancy would changeless beam — 

No ills its brimming nectar cup to sour, 
No storms to crush, no poisoning breath to 
blight the beauteous flower ! 



196 ON A PAINTING OF TWO CHILDREN. 

Yet let me shun the puling rhymster's whine ; 

Here is a talisman to banish cares ; 
Sweet Marjory ! that dimpled cheek of thine 

Would make an Anchoret forget his prayers ; 
And then, my blue-eyed Mary ! with thy lips 

Of deep carnation, and that half-divine 
Cherubic smile, that scarcely can eclipse 

Thy brow's irradiance, which the signet bears 
Of coming worth and beauty, that no passing 
time impairs. 

Ye lovely elves ! if thus your imaged smile 
Can cheat a pining heart of half its pain, 
How light must be that happy parent's toil 

Your kiss of rapture welcomes home again, 
Around whose knees, like fawns at play, ye 
bound 
With gladsome din, and many an artless 
wile ! 
Sweet prattlers, ah ! the spell ye warp'd around 

My dreaming fancy must not there remain. 
Farewell ! Heaven shower its blessings on your 
infant heads like rain ! 



SPIRIT OF MY FATHER, ART THOU 
HOVERIXG NIGH? 

VESPER. 

11 Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from hence- 
forth : yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their 
labors: and their works do follow them. — Rev. xiv. 13. 

Oh ! blessed are the righteous that sleep in 
the Lord, 

And holy and calm is their slumber, 
For when to that mansion of silence restor'd, 

No woes the lone tenant can cumber. 

'Tis vain to lament o'er the dark couch of rest, 
Where the sainted believer is sleeping; 

"When the spirit is gone to the land of the 
blest, 
Where never come sorrow or weeping. 

Then why should we here in the weeds of woe, 
Their departure from hence be deploring, 

While they sit where the fountain of life doth 
flow, 
Their glorious Redeemer adoring. 



198 SPIRIT OF MY FATHER. 

Oh ! surely 'tis rapture to stray by that stream 
Where the harps of heaven are chiming, 

Where seraph and saint and seraphim 
The praise of Jehovah are hymning. 

Their lyres are of gold, and their robes like 
snow, 

And the song of the Lamb they are singing, 
But never shall child of mortality know 

The song that through Salem is ringing. 

And pleasures forever are growing there, 

And joys eternally blooming, 
And trees and flowers unfading and fair, 

The breeze with their fragrance perfuming. 

No sun in that firmament takes his stand, 
No moon in its heaven doth wander, 

For the Lord is the light of that lovely land, 
And it shines with the blaze of His splendor. 

In that blessed clime life never grows old, 
And there no fond bosoms ere sever ; 

There love never dies — there never stows 
cold, 
But blossoms for ever and ever. 



TO MY SISTER ELLEN. 

Return, sweet sister Ellen ! come 
Where loving looks will greet thee, 

And kind hearts smile thy welcome home, 
And open arms will meet thee ! 

Beloved one, we have monrn'd thee long, 

And, mid onr tears and sadness, 
Oft call to mind thy trancing song, 

And guileless looks of gladness. 

And, when the evening shadows fall, 
We want thy blue eye's brightness ; 

And sigh to miss, within the hall, 
Thy small foot's fairy lightness. 

We've wreathed thy lattice round with flowers, 
And cleck'd thy fav'rite chamber, 

And made the spoils of greenwood bowers 
Around its casement clamber. 

We've watch'd for thee from morn till eve, 

In silence and in sorrow, 
And when night came to undeceive, 

We said, " She'll come to-morrow." 



200 TO MY SISTER ELLEN. 

And wilt thou not come, sister dear, 
Among our woods to wander ? 

The music of our streams to hear, 
And trace their wild meander? 

Oh, come, my own beloved one, come ! 

Here loving looks will greet thee, 
And kind hearts smile thy welcome home, 

And open arms will meet thee. 



LINES ON A MINIATURE. 

Oh, fair Lizzy ! oh, dear Lizzy ! 
Oh, lov'd Lizzy ! what is this I see ? 

That blue ee's soft glancing 

All my soul entrancing, 

Sets my heart a-dancing, • 

With its glamourie. 

But though far asunder, 
Fancy still will wander, 
Ever growing fonder 

As it dreams of thee. 

Oh, fair Lizzy ! oh, dear Lizzy ! 

Oh, lov'd Lizzy ! what is this I see ? 
Every speaking feature, 
True to life and nature, 
Beauteous, glorious creature! 
To be lov'd by thee. 

Wintry seas may part us, 
Wayward fortune thwart us, 
But shall hope desert us, 

Sunder'd though we be? 



202 LINES ON A MINIATURE. 

No ! sweet spring returning, 
Soon shall end my mourning ; 
Then all bondage spurning, 

To thy arms I'll flee. 



AND SHALL THEIR ANTHEMS RING 
FOR ME? 

" I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over 
one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine 
just persons that need no repentance." — Luke xv. 17. 

And shall their anthems rin£ for me ? 
And shall the heavenly minstrelsy 
In holy raptur'd numbers swell, 
Because a soul is saved from hell ? 

The Lord of Life, whose blood did flow 

For guilty man, declar'd it so, 

And I believe, and shall adore 

His name when life and death is o'er. 

My restless spirit, why this strife? 

Oh ! listen to the words of life, 

Those words which never can be broken, 

For God the Lord himself hath spoken. 



Such precious hope the heart might cheer, 
Amid the darkest trials here, 
And animate the soul with faith, 
Tho' trembling on the vero;e of death. 



204 SHALL THEIR ANTHEMS RING FOR ME ? 

When time and nature hath decayed, 
And mortal things are past and tied, 
I shall adore the blessed Lord, 
"Who spake that joy-inspiring word. 



LOVE. 

Love, love, ay, let us talk of love, 
For it sets my soul a-fflowmg-. 

As vernal gales in bower and grove, 
Sets all their sweets a-blowino-- 

Or as the summer shower which sets 
The mountain stream a-flowinff. 

Love, love, if aught of heaven on earth 
Is found, 'tis love that makes it ; 

Each noble thought or deed of worth, 
'Tis love, 'tis love awakes it ; 

And but the generous soul alone 
Luxuriously partakes it. 

It mocks chill winter's piercing blast, 
The deep floods cannot drench it ; 

It smiles 'at time, though speeding fast, 
For death can never quench it ; 

Nor peril, suffering, pain, nor woe, 
Can from the bosom wrench it. 

Away, thou selfish sordid soul, 
Thou canst not buy this pleasure. 



206 LOVE. 

Nay, even now were thine the whole 
Of Ophir's sparkling treasure, 

Thou wert a beggar still, and poor 
Beyond all earthly measure. 

The boundless universe of space, 
Heaven, earth, and air and ocean, 

To love one hymn of homage raise, 
One thrill of glad emotion ; 

And in a thousand voices breathe 
Their raptur'd deep devotion. 

And oh ! if o'er life's pilgrim way, 
Like flower in desert growing, 

One gleam of sunshine brightly play, 
Across the bosom throwing 

A holy joy, it is when love's 
Elysian light is glowing. 

But there's a bliss surpassing all, 

To weary mortals given, 
Whose balm, like dews of twilight, fall 

On hearts with sorrow riven. 
'Tis when our earthly love is o'er, 

We'll love anew in heaven. 



A SERENADE SONG. 

Ope thy lattice, my lady dear, 

Where amaranthine flowers are wreathing ; 
Ope thy lattice, my lady dear, 

And list the lay that love is breathing ; 
Brightly over tree and tower 

The gemlike star of eve is beaming ; 
Softly through the orange bower 

The maiden moon is mildly gleaming. 

Ope thy lattice, my lady dear, 

The nightingale his love is hymning, 
And hark ! its vesper call so clear 

The holy convent bell is chiming. 
Down among the myrtle bowers, 

Like wooer youth the breeze is sighing, 
And on the fragrant bosom'd flowers 

In pearl drops the dew is lying. 

Wake then, dearest ! every sound. 

Every eye but mine is sleeping ; 
Not a murmur breathes around, 

Save thy love his vigil keeping. 
Ope thy lattice, my lady dear, 

Where amaranthine flowers are wreathing ; 
Ope thy lattice, my lady dear, 

And list the lay that love is breathing. 



PHILIP FAIRLEY. 

SONG. 

Lag nae langer on through life, 
Philip Fairley, Philip Fairley, 

Wanting that wee heav'n, a wife, 
Lanely Philip Fairley. 

Seek her east, an' seek her wast, 
Philip Fairley, Philip Fairley ; 

When ye find her, haud her fast, 
Faithfu' Philip Fairley. 

She maun hae baith wit an' grace, 
Philip Fairley, Philip Fairley ; 

Fau'tless form and comely face, 
For dainty Philip Fairley. 

Jimp an' gentle, trig an' feat, 
Philip Fairley, Philip Fairley ; 

Kind an' courtlie, young an' sweet, 
An' a' for Philip Fairley. 

Like a gowan in a glen, 

Philip Fairley, Philip Fairley ; 

Nane but you her sweets maun ken, 
Canty Philip Fairley. 



PHILIP FAIRLEY. 200 

She maim lo'e ye for ye'rseV, 
Philip Fairley, Philip Fairley; 

Else she ne'er shall mate nor mell 
Wi' our braw Philip Fairley. 
14 



A SILLER'D LOVE THEY BID ME SEEK. 

SONG. 

A siller'd love they bid me seek, 
They bid me woo a tocher'd quean ; 

Light of my life, my heart would break, 
Were I to give one pang to thine. 

Oh ! wae betide them, would they part 
The angel of my life and me ? 

No ! thou art twin'd around my heart 
So firmly, death alone can free. 

A rosebud grows down in the dale, 
Begirt with many a prickly thorn, 

Whose sweets perfume the passing gale 
At close of day, at dawn of morn. 

My life, thou art the rosebud fair, 
Beset with woes around — above — 

But I will blunt the thorns of care, 

And thou shall bloom in peace and love. 



THY CHEEKS ARE LIKE LILIES, 
MARION. 

Thy cheeks are like lilies, Marion, 

Dipt i' the red bluid wine ; 
Thy iang glassy hair's like a lint-tap 

Tassel'd in gouden twine. 

Thy e'en are like starnies, Marion, 
That shine i' the lift sae blue; 

Thy lips are like twa blushing rose-buds, 
Pearl'd wi' e'ening dew. 

Pure is the snaw on the mountain, 
White is the foam on the linn ; 

But whiter thy bosom, my Marion, 
And purer the kind heart within. 

Saft sings the mavis, my Marion, 

Its wild mellow melodie 
Sweet frae the green wood at gloamin', 

But sweeter thy love strain to me. 



BUT UNTO THEE, BUT UNTO THEE. 



" To whom can we go but unto thee ? thou hast the 
words of eternal life." — Matthew xiv. 6. 



But unto Thee — but unto Thee — 
To whom can man in trouble flee? 
To whom his malady make known, 
O living God, but Thee alone ? 

Thou the alone physician art 
Canst heal the sorrow-broken heart ; 
Subdue the wounded spirit's pain, 
And bid it bound with joy again. 

The troubled springs to which at first 
We blindly stoop'd to slake our thirst, 
Hath dried up like a summer rill, 
And left us faint and thirsting still. 

When storms are louring o'er our head, 
And every earthly stay is fled, 
To whom for refuge can we flee, 
O living God, but unto Thee ? 

No health earth's turbid streams contain — 
Who drinks from them must thirst again ; 
But he who quaffs life's limpid river, 
No more shall thirst again forever ! 



3[n sj^enionaivh 



Behold this silent grave ! it doth embrace 
A wife with Rachel's comely face, 
Sarah's obedience, Lydia's open heart, 
Martha's great care, and Mary's better part. 



